Merlin 1. Chapter 1

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food

**Solus et Fidelis**

_**Chapter 1**_

Geraint Wyndym had a secret.

Geraint started out life humbly enough. A family of farmers, the Wyndym Clan found themselves in the middle of a feud they could not avoid and where neutrality was not an option. Caught in the cross-fire, the family was decimated by the feudal fighting. The eventual war caused the remaining few to flee who did so without notice. They lost land, position and all possessions and Geraint – the youngest at twelve - became separated from kin. When the opportunity presented itself – meaning – when there remained no other choice to earn honest money and be fed with regularity – Geraint joined an army. A foot soldier at first, Geraint displayed an aptitude for battle which could have been simple self-interest survival. Gradually, as battles were fought, Geraint used opportunity as an ally. Why not swap the current sword for one that was better suited – perhaps a better steel or keener balance in the hand - from the hands of a dead enemy? Improvement was never greedy or disrespectful of the dead, never wasteful but always deliberate. Spoils of war were rights conferred upon the victorious. In Geraint's case, the victor earned a fine sword, two dirks (one worn in belt, the other sheathed in boot), a set of armour only slightly too big and a horse with an excellent saddle.

It was a nomadic existence but it was a living; there was pay, shelter, food, and above all a point to life. Geraint's early display of inclination earned attention from those that saw potential. Teachers emerged. Some likely. Some unlikely. All of them offered knowledge and the full wealth of their experience. One taught Geraint how to read words. Another how to read men. A third how to read battlefields. Geraint witnessed corruption, incompetence and stifling ego and began to appreciate the value of these opposites in leaders.

Geraint Wyndym journeyed far and wide. One day around a low campfire after darkness had set in came they began talking in whispers of a distant land called Camelot. The King – they said – cared deeply about his people yet he played no favourites. Magic was forever banned; a tragedy from long ago that never mended. The letter of the law had meaning and substance and applied equally to all. The land was bountiful, the climate temperate, the people happy. Geraint Wyndym wondered at such a place where order and grace reigned. Setting out for Camelot, Geraint used the military as a means of travel. Once arrived at Camelot, Geraint Wyndym realized they valued a good, hardworking soldier and landed a position. Over the course of successive campaigns, Geraint was promoted through the general ranks until one day, the King sent a summons.

King Uthor Pendragon had stood at the centre of court, feet planted apart and strong – as if he were an oak – at once rooted and filling the sky with expanse. His crown sat straight across his brow, brilliant scarlet robes flowing from his broad shoulders. Gloved fists rested on powerful hips and a gaze met Geraint Wyndym that seemed to see past mortal flesh into one's soul. This King's presence was a palpable force. He exuded a regal authority that defied disobedience. He commanded order through his absolute power as king yet his first words to Geraint Wyndym were gentle and understated.

"I understand you are not from Camelot yet have acquitted yourself admirably on our behalf." The King did not rush his words. Everyone listened to the tenor of his speech that echoed the gravelled growl of a dragon. "I wish to confer upon you permanent rank and standing in our Second Platoon."

"Thank you, my liege. It is my great honour to serve you."

"Come," the King had stood aside and held out a hand to show the way, "I wish to hear about your role in the Battle of Seven Points. How did you accomplish victory under such dire circumstances? You are a man of many talents..."

The King had not noticed nor shown the slightest flicker of recognition of any secret. Geraint Wyndym eased and followed, finding the King erudite, interested and with a profound grasp of warfare.

Men saw what they wanted to see. Men saw what they expected to see. Men saw what they were coaxed to see. Geraint Wyndym learned this early and exploited man's natural desire for illusion and comfort with the familiar. It was in this discovery that Geraint buried the secret that would destroy everything and, if discovered, would lead to certain banishment or even death.

Geraint Wyndym was a woman.


	2. Chapter 2

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food

_**Chapter 2**_

Uther awoke. For a single breathtaking instant, he thought of nothing. With his eyes still closed, he revelled in how the sun warmed his cheek. Under the covers, his limbs were relaxed, snug and cocooned. He inhaled and a phantom perfume – his long-dead wife – that teased him with comfort, familiarity and companionship. In that last – a vague pang of longing plucked at him. It had been almost beyond his memory since he had shared his bed with anyone – let alone an equal. He shifted from that thought and listened. In the far off distance, perhaps in his imagination or half-dream state, he could hear the sounds of the earth beckon the morning and his attention to life.

He opened his eyes too carelessly and immediately squinted into the glaring brightness. Rolling away – his mind crashed awake and thoughts and pressures flooded in – each competing for his undivided attention. With unmerciful quickness he was fully awake. The responsibilities of a king hounded him and the blissful silence of a moment previous evaporated. The last thought of his yesterday became his first thought of today.

Would his kingdom to go to war?

Uther closed his eyes and braced himself as the full weight of the question bore down on him. In a stream, he ushered the much-debated pros and cons into an order that lasted only until a brand new one – fresh and unconsidered - appeared. There were voices – snippets of advice from everyone who had an opinion in his court and beyond. Much of it was unsolicited. Little of it was of any value. It was his responsibility to discern ideas of those with self-interest or those who were bereft of intelligence from those of genuine experience and reflection. King Uther Pendragon was a good leader. He made sound decisions. Perhaps his current uncertain state was why he did so. The choice of war was not to be made lightly. He lay motionless, hoping his corporal stillness could translate to ease his mind.

A tinkling of metal brought him back to the present. He knew the noise and turned his head towards the table. Neetha set out his breakfast this morning as she did every morning. She was an efficient woman, quiet and punctual.

Seeing him awake, she curtsied. She then added a quiet "Your Majesty." and finished setting out the food, placing plates and mug in habitual arrangement. He observed her watching him from the corner of her eye and how – as he rose from his bed – she was careful to have her back to him. The finality of the knotting of his robe was her cue to relax and move once again to face him. It was this way every morning and this way because he was the King. Everyone gave him this special deference, this guarded exclusive space that made him utterly alone in a crowded court. It was his right as King to be so treated. It was his destiny that made him different and apart – even from his son. One day when this was his – Arthur would understand.

He nodded to Neetha to dismiss her. He did not talk to her. Words were pointless and unnecessary. There was enough chatter inside his mind without encouraging it with others. She offered another curtsy and another "Your Majesty". With the now empty tray at her side and left. He knew she would within her circles spread the news that he was awake and thus start another day's rhythm for the castle.

Breakfast, ablutions, shaving and dressing happened without ceremony and then – donning crown and kings robes – he entered the long hallway for court. The white stone was bathed in sunlight, giving a glow to the corridor.

He made the walk in silence. That is he did not speak but nodded when greeted – too preoccupied with his thoughts. The effort of a single word beyond him. There was a scullery maid – her brother stood as a common soldier in his army. This eldest boy was no more than seventeen and the only support for the family of five. Then there were the two porters – friends since childhood – one hearty, one with a clubbed foot. If prolonged, recruitment for soldiers would split them forever. And what of Neetha? Her two sons worked in the stables and were in the cavalry. It would surely be heartbreak for her to lose either one of them; the loss of both unthinkable. He shook off the melancholy sadness and steeled his thoughts. War meant peace. War meant some died so others lived. War was important and had meaning and purpose. The only question was – did this war qualify?

At the doors of court, the two guardsmen each took a handle and opened the way in advance of him so he could enter without breaking his stride. Inside, there was a collection of men that greeted him with a unison bow as he entered. There were advisors – several he had known a lifetime. There was always Gaius. And his son – Arthur the Prince – and whimsically backed up by his servant Merlin who simply defied description.

To one side – his favourite of all his subjects – his soldiers. It was these men who made peace possible for Camelot. Without an army willing to give up their lives on the command of the monarch, a kingdom was lost. The youth in these men's faces reminded him once again of the heavy cost of war. He led no old soldiers. Seeing them come forward – enthusiastic, able and willing – humbled him. His conscience pricked him to remind him that his choice about war would see many of these men lost forever, leaving unmendable the broken hearts of parents, siblings and spouses throughout Camelot. Do not sacrifice these lives in vain. If they are to die in battle, let it be for a noble cause. This cause alone will be their legacy and the only comfort to the grieving.

He scanned the group and bid them approach his desk. It had been prepared last night upon his bidding. A stack of letters to one side and a single large map unfurled with corners anchored by four smooth stones. Other smaller stones – of pink quartz and basalt – were lined up on the side and would make do as soldiers.

Among the first to the desk was Geraint Wyndym – a non-descript soldier of deceiving slight stature. He had shown his gifts for strategy before now and Uther had begun to welcome his opinion above others. Geraint Wyndym – even for his age – was battle-tested and a veteran. Uther knew that this man had a mind who could anticipate, survive and vanquish. His advice was blunt and to the point when obvious; circumspect and detailed when the concept was subtle and cunning. As much as Uther would point out Geraint's abilities, Arthur never seemed to grasp the finer points of Geraint's tactics. Indeed – Uther watched Arthur chafe under his repeated encouragements to be more mindful of Geraint's ideas.

"Geraint Wyndym." Uther stepped back and folded one arm across his chest to anchor an elbow. "You will take a look at this map and tell me what you think."

"Yes, my liege" Geraint Wyndym took a bold step forward, eyes bright with interest. As he approached, he was already scanning the territory. There was an intensity of gaze that suggested a stream of scenarios was playing out in his mind.

The others filled in around Geraint Wyndym – his son Arthur among them. Uther took a step back. His silence brought questioning gazes from those who knew him best. They seemed to understand without being told that something was amiss.

Without preamble, Uther relayed the news he had alone had harboured. "The Kingdom of Corinth has asked us to join them in a war against Elysia."


	3. Chapter 3

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food

_**Chapter 3**_

Arthur stood beside Geraint Wyndym at the front of the table. He tried hard to ignore the man but Arthur found it difficult. Wyndym's presence was a buzzing in his head – a constant, unshakeable irritant with no known purpose except to plague him. Wyndym was not a knight. He had no physical presence nor imposing stature. He was not aggressive or pompous or needlessly talkative. He was neither bold nor rude; neither slovenly nor drunken. Indeed – had he the temerity to have even one less-than-admirable trait – Arthur might have found it a redeeming quality in the man and an excuse to be at peace with him. It would have been a secret satisfied knowing that Arthur could cherish that this foreign upstart was not at all as perfect as he seemed. Arthur would then resume his status of more than equals. As it was – Arthur ground his molars having to stand beside this man – this impertinent minion – and to watch as his father's gaze fell always first to Geraint Wyndym. That Prince Arthur had been relegated to this second choice status had not been lost on a few perceptive members of the court. From time to time, one or the other would put a drop of poison in Arthur's ear so that even sharing the same room as Geraint Wyndym became an effort in restraint. The other more moderate ones suggested it was nothing but Arthur's imagination. Geraint Wyndym was no threat to King or Camelot; only benefit; he had proven himself worthy of status. Reassurances about Arthur's immutable status as Crown Prince of Camelot had little effect on him. He was Uther Pendragon's only son and heir but felt pushed aside in favour of another.

In those moments when Geraint Wyndym stood at the centre of his father's world, Arthur ached for the chance to battle Geraint – for glory and honour – witnessed by all. It would prove to his father that he indeed was worthy of First Knight. Failing that, Arthur imagined a not-accidental meeting to teach him a lesson. Arthur curled his fingers - fists itchy to pound them into a cheekbone and to pummel a too-soft and youthful face with blows. A swift kick to the side of the knee and the body would crumple. A knife to the throat and Arthur could command from his prey any pitiful begging he could suggest. Mercy would be his proxy for power. Adrenaline suddenly rushed over him at the thought. He snorted through his nose at the flight of fantasy.

It was impossible in Arthur's position to simply pick a fight. He was the Crown Prince and it was not done. To attack one of his father's favourites without reason would see Arthur spending weeks earning back lost status in his father's eyes. Uther Pendragon expected everything of his son – courage, honour, duty, substance. Given the slightest reason, however, Arthur knew his spleen would be well-vented on this scrawny man. From the corner of his eye, he studied him once again. There was almost nothing to him. Was this the body of a warrior? His armour hung about him like a burlap sack. In unguarded moments when soldiers met in the stables and regaled each other of conquests, even Arthur could protest some of the bigger exaggerations about his own exploits. Surely the stories of Geraint Wyndym's skill in battle were overblown in the extreme.

"Geraint Wyndym," The King spoke his name and Arthur hid a glower as he watched his father's face soften with affection – almost pleasure – at addressing him. The king's expression was just shy of a smile and he clearly anticipated with interest the ensuing discourse. "Tell me what you think."

Arthur stood in silence. As if Geraint Wyndym knew anything about Elysia or their army or their strategies. Had he ever visited Corinth? Surely not. Arthur looked around at the other men who had copied his father's interest. It was insufferable in the extreme.

"My liege …"

Arthur bristled; exhaling roughly. It was always "my liege" or "my great honour" with Geraint Wyndym. While the King deserved respect, Arthur felt Geraint's expressions overdone and needlessly saccharine. On more than one occasion, an elder chided Arthur that Geraint Wyndym was from Away and naturally his customs would be different from his. Surely the Crown Prince could be more hospitable and welcoming.

Geraint Wyndym was for the war. Of course he was – Arthur thought. Naturally, a man with only a hammer sees every problem as a nail; a man with a sword sees every problem solved with a war. There was some merit in Geraint's logic and he could maintain his own in a complex debate – enough that Arthur could see the others begin to sway towards his view.

As the discourse went on and it became clear that the prevailing thought was in support of the war, Arthur began speaking up for a contrary opinion.

"It is not our fight." He announced without preamble. "Elysia has taken a few trifling territories away from Cornith. Hardly a field or two of land. Why should we join them? Elysia has taken nothing from us. It is a dispute between two neighbours. That is all."

"Perhaps" Geraint Wyndym conceded in that quiet, inoffensive manner that almost always preceded a counter-argument. "It is not our fight today. What if Elysia believes that Camelot is also desirable to possess? Is it not wise to pre-emptively support peaceful respect of borders? This is the second time Elysia has expanded without consequence. This time, it is over a field rich in copper. Should we let them continue unchallenged?"

Arthur scowled. "They are a strong army. Three times the size of Camelot's. They are well trained. Well fed. Well armed." There seemed to be a sway in silent opinion. Arthur waited.

"A band of allied forces could match them if well led. We will not be alone but joining Corinth." Each word was picked carefully – as if stepping through broken glass.

"Why defend Corinth? Corinth has nothing we value. They have no resources we do not have. We have our own copper fields. No other mines, or crops or knowledge either. Camelot is equal to Corinth." All eyes went back to Arthur. He crossed his arms for punctuation.

"Corinth defines our lands to the north. A safe and peaceful border is of great value, is it not? A faithful friend is valued for more than what can be traded or won."

"Offence will be impossible." Arthur knew he was forcing the issue and his arguments becoming more extreme simply to hold a position that differed from Geraint. "Our forces will do nothing but defend. Defence is no role to play in a war we did not create."

Geraint swept a confident hand over the full width of the map and by doing so, transformed the group with energy. The action seemed to draw in everyone in anticipation of what was to come next. In his right hand, he palmed the markers and began placing them in small but strategic groups. "The Elysian troops are here. If we split into two forces and position ourselves here and here … we can advance in sequence … first here, then here. Leap frog forward – we give the enemy the appearance of one force and we seem not to rest. One advances while the other rests. It will exhaust them and make us seem bigger than we are." He pushed the groups forward and, by doing so, made an obvious cornering of the enemy. "Elysia must either retreat or fight. If we hold the ridge, it would be unwise for them to attack up a mountain. It would be foolhardy and leave many lives lost. Their only option becomes a retreat along the valley floor that we will keep open and make it easy and obvious for them to move."

Uther nodded approval in silence while the other senior courtiers murmured their satisfaction.

Arthur scowled at the logic and the simplicity of the plan. He could find no final argument and willed himself to think of some last idea that would lead Camelot out of war and could find none. He looked around the table. The others continued putting heads together, whispering, pointing and nodding.

It was as if the Royal Court had been suddenly charmed into war by this man. What had he said? How had he come to this strategy? Why had not Arthur swayed them instead? By day's end, an envoy was dispatched to the King of Corinth. Camelot would join the war and provide two platoons; one led by Arthur and one led by Geraint Wyndym.

Arthur felt defeated. Worse, the others began to subtly work on him to reconcile him to the decision.


	4. Chapter 4

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food

_**Chapter 4**_

"Merlin." Arthur announced, bursting into his bedroom with high energy. "There is something about Geraint Wyndym."

Merlin straightened, keeping his back to his friend. Thusly, concealed, he was free to roll his eyes. Not again with the Geraint Wyndym, he thought as he yanked away at the corner of Arthur's bedding. It was no secret – at least not to Merlin – that Arthur did not harbour any affection for Geraint Wyndym. What precisely had ever been the initial or subsequent offence against Arthur was lost on Merlin. While there might have been more than passing attention paid by Uther was quite in line with Geraint Wyndym's abilities as a soldier. He was – by all accounts – a very good strategist. Even Merlin could understand the value of intelligence to a king.

Certainly, it did not follow by virtue of Geraint's skill that Arthur was necessarily reduced to brainlessness. Arthur remained an astute analyst. He was also a superb soldier; fearless, loyal and able. He understood his duty to his king and his future subjects. Yet every time the court debated a complicated issue, Uther would call on Geraint Wyndym for his particular views on the matter. Arthur kept ignoring that Uther did this not in isolation – he surveyed all his advisors including his son. This, however, did not sit well with Arthur and subsequently Merlin would be lectured on the finer vices and sins of Geraint Wyndym – or the lack thereof that apparently indicated a man wholly without imagination, courage and high spirits.

Arthur continued his energetic commentary as Merlin pulled aside the pillows. It would not be wise to admit it to Arthur but Merlin had no quarrel with Geraint Wyndym. Quite the contrary since Geraint Wyndym offered Merlin a rare opportunity to find someone equally suited to share a certain outsider's view. Geraint always struck Merlin as personable but secretive and a loner by choice. Merlin understood what it was to carry a secret and this tendency towards mystery increased his affinity towards the soldier. While present at court, Geraint was clearly a fringe-dweller as Merlin was and that might have been why the two had a such a congenial acquaintance.

Merlin heard Arthur's voice fade into a vague murmur. He continued attacking the bedding and did not so much fold the dirty linen as he did wad it up into a large unwieldy ball. Surely there was some subtle magic he could do that would simply clean the sheets where they lay and thus avoid the task entirely. There had to be a few words to use … "dirt begone" … he thought to himself. Simple. Elegant. He debated what would be the translation.

That Uther should ban ALL magic was decidedly short-sighted, Merlin thought. Without question there was great merit in utilitarian magic. Why not make an exception for the laundry spells? The dusting and sweeping and scrubbing spells? Polishing armour spells? Then there were all the mundane tasks from Gaius that should have most certainly have qualified for magic. It was so unfair.

"Are you listening to me?" Arthur's question brought Merlin back like a cuff to the back of the head. The tone of his voice was accusatory and without humour.

"Yes. Yes. Of course." He turned, hoping that his arms full of laundry would assist him with a quick exit. No one liked a man advancing with dirty sheets. Ducking his head and avoiding eye contact, Merlin started towards the door in a bull rush to leave.

Arthur blocked him and did not fall for the bluff, holding off all advances and forcing Merlin to stop in his tracks.

"What did I say, then?" The arms crossed. The eyes were his father's; unrelenting and focused.

"Oh. Well!" Merlin nodded with put-on airs that suggested he had a long list and careful to keep the linen bundled in his arms with a vague thought it protected him. He opened his eyes wide, hoping his expression conveyed sincerity. If nothing else, he hoped it infused his words with innocence. "You said … a great many things … hard to pick out the highlights, really."

"You haven't heard a word I've said."

"That's not true!" Merlin was able to refute that with liveliness and honesty. There were at least two words he heard distinctly.

"Geraint Wyndym." He said, lifting his chin in the private victory.

"And what of him?" Arthur would not be swayed.

Here Merlin began cobbling together what he remembered from Arthur's previous commentary. "Up to no good. Dodgy past. Uther is entirely too reliant upon his advice." By Arthur's expression Merlin knew he had – if not the details – then the spirit of the discourse well summarized.

"Alright. I'll give you that." Arthur paused, then the anger left him and a profound seriousness took over. "This war may prove lengthy."

War? Merlin thought to himself. What war? Having talked his way out of trouble, he was loathe to resume it by asking the leading question. Presumably the war had played some role in Arthur's commentary. How could he have missed it? What war?!

"We haven't much time. I will need you to get everything ready by day after tomorrow."

"Right." Merlin nodded. Everything? What everything? Who were they fighting? Why? What had happened? He renewed his vow to be more attentive.

"And while you're at it, I want you to find out as much as you can about Geraint Wyndym. I think he is using magic for his own gains."

"Magic?" Merlin perked up.

"Yes. I think he is casting charms – spells – on the King and his court."

"But why?"

"That's what I need you to find out."


	5. Chapter 5

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food

_**Chapter 5**_

In the middle of the commotion in the court, Geraint did not move. The King placed his arms wide to brace his broad shoulders and leaned on the maps. He had looked straight at her and, almost without notice, lifted his index finger a fraction off the table. She had come to learn that this was a command to wait. From habit, she stood at ease, feet slightly apart and hands nested in the small of her back. She tingled with anticipation. It had not taken her long at court to discover that a private audience with the King was rare. Rarer still was the kind of confidences he had begun sharing with her; he revealed a time when he was younger, accompanied by comrades-in-arms, going into battle with hale and hearty spirits. It was the memory of these times – perhaps – that he could only relive with someone who was young and thirsty for knowledge. An unexpected affection had grown between them and she watched the King assume a role as her mentor. Her company pleased him and, she thought, appealed to his intellect. She felt honoured by the attention and confidence; his conversations were marked by wisdom, insight, and occasional humour. Only with someone from the outside could a King share hard-learned lessons, the bitter regret of mistakes and remain undiminished by revelations.

The King delivered overt orders and began clearing the room.

She studied him unnoticed. Twenty four hours ago, this kingdom was at peace. Now it was at war. King Uther displayed a gravity that bred urgency without panic. He moved back and forth now, vital and confident, bidding maps be duplicated, missives be copied and instructions be sent out to the armoury. As a King, he dominated; as a man, he commanded.

"Come," Uther held out his hand. Geraint came forward and, as she reached his side, he collapsed his arm around her shoulders like an eagle folding in a protective wing. The scarlet robes enveloped her along with his scent – sweat; fine oils; smoke and authority. The combination intoxicated her. For a moment, she held closed her eyes and savoured him. In another time and place – she might have imagined submitting to him. He was talking and being this close to him, she could feel the vibration the sound made in his chest; it was a rumble of thunder. As they went through the doorway together, the power and length of his stride propelled her forward at a pace that exceeded hers. He had no mis-steps; no relenting of his manner or adjustment for her. She sped up to match him; the effort was expected and unnoticed.

Leading them to his private offices, Uther began discussing the Second Platoon. It was unlike the knights in training and sophistication and yet he observed that she had taken his advice, mixed it with her own knowledge and thereby accomplished much in a short time. He revealed a renewed pride from and of the Second Platoon. Their abilities had been focused and refined. They would never be knights, but they were nonetheless men of emerging character and good soldiers.

Inside his offices, he bid Geraint to sit opposite him by the mullioned window. They had a full view of the expanse of Camelot and it was here where Uther had confessed that he came in his most private moments to think without interruption. As he settled into his chair, the light of the late afternoon sun set his face into a contrast of light and shadow. In his eyes, she could see the unnameable burden that isolated regal authority. The severe scar cut a swath down the right side of his forehead and seemed to delineate this line of illumination and darkness. In his past, a sword had come down and tried to split him in two. It left him with a feature that defined him – two sides forever bound into one.

"Tell me," he began. There was in the tenor of his voice - a seriousness - that Geraint had not seen before. "You believe that you and your platoon shall fare well?"

"Yes, my liege." She was unsure of his aim and relied on simplicity to guide her until she understood. His gloved hands curled over the arms of the chair like talons and he fixed her with a fierce unblinking stare that made her eyes burn. She blinked. He did not. Silence unfolded. The colour in his eyes deepened as the shadows obscured his expression. She felt a colour rise to her cheeks and a thought flitted across her mind that the full front of his body sat squarely across from her; crown, shoulders, chest, groin. A draft caught the traces of his scent and wafted another hint of him – this time of spices.

"My son despises you." It was cold and direct; without sympathy or explanation.

"Yes, my liege." She added nothing. It would be a lie to feign surprise. There was no benefit in even attempting it. The Crown Prince loathed her – or who he thought she was. The tension between Uther and Geraint drew out. Truth had been matched to truth; it was naked and bold, and left both of them at once vulnerable and manoeuvring for what the other possessed.

With absolute stillness, the King soared. There seemed no breath; no blink; no movement of any kind. Then another few words that came from deep within him like a preamble to a roar.

"It will not affect your decisions." From another, it would have been a statement. From Uther, it was an order. Explicit, it defied disobedience.

"He is your only son." She countered, needing him to be clear. He was commanding she disregard who Arthur was and all he represented – to Camelot – to the king. In the back of her mind, she knew that simply by saying it – he had made it possible. An idea once spoken cannot be retracted – it lives on in the minds and memories of others.

Had she not been watching, she would have missed Uther's reaction. It happened around his eyes. It was a softening at the corners revealing a profound grief. Uther knew that by that order he might be condemning his only son to death. Save the son? Save the Kingdom? The kingdom was more important than the son. Uther – despite all that he had that made him King – revealed every father's pain – phantom imaginings and worries about what was to come for a beloved child about to enter battle. As king, Uther was all the fathers, not just Arthur's. Great responsibility meant dispassion and objectiveness. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one. The moment of unguarded worry disappeared behind a veil of hardness. A king is not weak. He is not careless, nor is he sentimental.

"On the battlefield, he is a soldier, not my son. Do you understand me?" His gaze was piercing, bereft of compassion.

She looked at him with profound respect. All at once, she realized he was the loneliest man in Camelot. Inside welled an ache so strong it took her breath away. Her cheeks coloured again as the pain seized her chest and enveloped her core with longing. She was compelled to comfort him; to relieve him – even if only briefly – of his burden.

"Yes, my liege," She said and was careful not to say more. That way – there would be no explicit promise between them that could be broken.


	6. Chapter 6

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food

_**Chapter 6**_

Merlin did not have to wait long for an opportunity to fulfil Arthur's request to seek out the motives of Geraint. He had considered the direction and discovered he was forced to weigh the value of one friendship built on experiences against another friendship that had not had the benefit of time.

Merlin's chance came to him at noon in the market. He had been pushing his way through crowds – feeling an upstream salmon in a downstream flow – filtering the calls and conversation and laughter and debate for the voice of his favourite vendor. She was a farmer's wife that had taking a liking to him. She had a soft spot, she had told him, because he had a kind face and appreciated the taste of good food. To prove it, she always tucked in a little extra for him; an apple, a few strawberries, or a few walnuts. Peaches were just in season and she undoubtedly delivered the best in Camelot. If he bought extra, he might be able to press Gwen into making preserves.

"Merlin!" a voice called to him from behind. There were quickening footfalls and he turned to find Geraint approaching with purpose.

"Oh, hello," Merlin lightened and failed to stop talking soon enough. "I was looking for you." He continued as Geraint reached his side.

Words innocent enough but were sufficient to cause a change in Geraint. He halted.

"For me? Why?" It was a guarded response trying to sound light-hearted.

"Well!" Merlin said as if he were about to explain and smiled expansively. Realizing his error, he went to and fro trying to extricate himself. As the crowds passed, he was buffeted by an accidental shoulder, then a basket and then finally pulled Geraint to the side and out of the way, "No reason. I mean. I'm always on the lookout. For you. Friends." He seized upon a line of thought he could sell. "Always on the look out for friends. You're my friend, aren't you Geraint?" Even for Merlin, that had been painful.

"Yes. I hope so." Geraint overlooked the effort, perhaps with pity. "Merlin. Can I ask a favour?"

"Favour? Of me?"

"Last week." Geraint began without preamble, "I saw you with Gwen. You were playing cards. Magic."

At the word, several stopped and stared. Merlin gripped his elbow and steered him away from the crowd and ducked them between the tent walls of two stalls. They wove around the guy lines, Geraint following Merlin closely.

"A trick! It was just a trick!" Merlin corrected him, feeling unexpectedly exposed and nervously being clear. "A trick is all. A sleight of hand. An illusion."

"Yes. An illusion. You predicted every card. I want you to show me. Can you?"

"Yes. Of course. Not here. Meet me later."

When they next met, Merlin was seated at the table and prepared with a deck of cards. Geraint straddled the stool opposite and leaned in, full of attention and acuity.

"It is slight of hand." Merlin passed the deck from hand to hand, fingers unusually extended and holding – alternately – tops and sides of the deck. Without preamble, he stopped and used his thumb and fourth finger to turn the top card face up, then kept it moving and turned it down, then face up again – rotating the top card with digital dexterity.

Merlin shuffled. He'd had time to consider his approach and began the conversation using his words deliberately.

"So tell me. Why are you so interested in magic?" There was only one word to use and Merlin studied the man for a reaction.

"You mean the cards?" Was this a refusal to use the word? Did it indicate a deliberate dissociation? "It is an entertainment. For my platoon."

Merlin assessed him. Merlin told enough half-truths to know them when he saw them. It was not quite lying but not quite the truth, either.

"Ah." Merlin nodded, playing along. "A little diversion to boost morale? Have you learned any other tricks, then?"

"No." Brevity was used as a retreat. "First one." Geraint continued to study the shuffling intently, mesmerized by Merlin's manipulation of the cards.

After showing him the bones of the trick, Merlin went on to the technical details. After several run throughs, Geraint was studing so closely Merlin began to think he might be telekinetic.

"Here." He tidied the deck with a sharp rap of the deck on the table and passed over the cards, "Now you try."

If the first few attempts were any indication not only was Geraint not capable of magic, he was never going to be able to execute even this simple card trick. His hands were not very big; he was clumsy with the refined movement required and it hindered the execution.

"No. Like this. Here. Watch me. Thumb here. Little finger there. Keep looking here and you'll see the cards before they come up." Merlin held up his hands fully revealing their positions relative to the cards. Then he turned his hands over and completed the trick at full speed. "King of hearts." He flicked over the king of hearts. "Two of clubs" Right card again. "Ten of diamonds." Another score. He flicked off more cards just as fast, creating a small collection in the middle of the table.

Geraint's brow furrowed in concentration and silently held out his hand, asking for the cards back.

Merlin watched him go through the trick with difficultly. It was clear this would be an entertainment for his platoon but not of the sort Geraint had in mind. Soldiers would be splitting themselves laughing. Merlin felt a pang of compassion. Each step was painfully obvious and far too slow. Geraint would never be convincing at this rate.

"Again." Merlin repeated, willing his friend to learn the trick. He added more details and hints and watched the hands strain into unnatural positions attempting to affect the trick.

"Three of spades?" Nine of diamonds.

"Queen of hearts?" Ace of diamonds.

"Close. That one still a red card." Merlin tried to be encouraging. It was such obvious forced optimism.

Merlin looked down at his own hands – they were smooth, white, unblemished and – from endless hours of washing in all its various forms – very clean.

Then he looked at Geraint's. As he turned over a hand, there were scrapes and scars – some deep, some just nicks. The skin was tanned unevenly so beyond the wrist where armour would fall. Fingers bore calluses and the hands seem to naturally take one of two habitual attitudes when at rest. Merlin could almost picture reins or a sword invisibly held in the hands. These were the hands of a man for whom manual labour had always been and always would be the only means possible to accomplish anything. Magic was not in this one.

"Well. Never mind. It takes a while to get the hang of it." Merlin tried to coax the cards way, "Maybe you could learn a rousing poem instead."


	7. Chapter 7 Goodbye 1

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome.

_**Chapter 7**_

Goodbye #1

All the time Merlin packed, he kept the door open and could see Gaius move about in the next room. The old man took up a book, flipped through the pages and set it aside for the next where he did the same with the next book. The same pile of books was stacked and unstacked – the location on the desk the only thing that changed. After a time, he shifted his attention to glassware, inspecting Merlin's final cleaning task before he left. Gaius held a flask up to the light and squinted, then seemed to tear with sun in his eyes.

Merlin flipped the cover of his satchel and ducked his head under the strap. With one last look around his room for any small final choices, he satisfied himself that he had all he needed. He looked through the archway into the next room. He took one step, then stopped. Once through the door, it would begin. It would be goodbye. Perhaps one from Gwen. Then onto the stables and then? Then the war.

He looked up at the ceiling; then to the fire place and the quilted bedding. It was so warm and dry here. Did he ever sufficiently appreciate this sanctuary? He looked to the cupboards and the one floorboard where the books of magic were hidden. It was such a pleasant place this room he had.

In the next room, Gwen rushed in. Strands of her hair curled around her face like a halo, her skirts swinging with the speed of her sudden movements.

"Have I missed him, Gaius? Tell me I haven't missed him."

"No." Gaius said. "He is still here." He pointed beyond and the two of them carried on as if he could not hear them.

The two put their heads together and looked at him. They waited and did not call him forth. The longer he stayed the longer he remained safe and sound.

"Take your time." Gwen held up a hand.

"I am ready," He said and ducked into the room. Gwen held a jar of peaches that she held out for him awkwardly.

"Here. It's not much." She said. "Might be a treat one day. If your spirits get low."

"That's wonderful." Merlin said, putting it into his satchel. "Thank you."

She came forward and lightly kissed him on the cheek. Then, without preamble, she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.

"Be safe." She whispered with a raspy voice.

They parted and then Gaius came forward.

"Well, boy." He looked up with rheumy eyes, focussing on flattening his collar that had been twisted under the edge of his tunic. "Can't even dress yourself." He muttered, smoothing out the corner more than once. "How will you ever hope to stay out of trouble?"

"I'll be fine. I promise."

"Yes." Gaius agreed patting him on the shoulders, not wanting to end the moment. "You will be perfectly fine."

"Nothing to worry about."

"Nothing at all." Gaius still could not meet his gaze.

"Gaius." Merlin said softly, inching his way towards the door. He looked up at Gwen whose nose had gone runny and lashes had gone wet. She came forward and touched Gaius on the shoulder. All at once, he appeared old and frail. "Gwen will be here to take care of you. I have to go now."

"I don't need taking care of, boy. Mind that." Gaius flashed and finally looked into Merlin's eyes. "Come here," He held open his arms and hugged him, then let him go in stages, tracing his hands down - first to Merlin's shoulders, then elbows, his wrists, then finally hands – these he gripped with strength.

"Be safe."

"I will." Merlin promised, then turning once more to wave at them, he left.


	8. Chapter 8 Goodbye 2

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome.

Chapter 8

Goodbye #2

"Arthur."

"Father."

It was as awkward as it sounded.

The two of them stood standing opposite each other in the great hall. It was supposed to be farewell; a private moment between them both to connect in the final hours before Arthur set off into battle and an unknown fate. It was the same sadness that played out across Camelot this day. Or should have been. But the King had critical duties to attend and so did the First Knight. Each subsumed their personal needs in the name of responsibility.

In the end, it was almost accidental the way in which they met. Both could hardly spare the time – their relationship less important than their other obligations to kingdom and soldiers and so sacrificed their private goodbyes to serve others. Arthur wondered yet again if it had been an excuse to mask their mutual reluctance. Both of them were adverse to demonstrative emotion; perhaps they were just avoiding each other.

For Arthur's part, he had been late. As he turned down the hall – walking with enough purpose that others who approached him had simply retreated without speaking - Arthur watched his father. The King had his head bowed and was slowly pacing as he read. Arthur's arrival could hardly have been secret but Uther did not look up immediately. Standing in front of his father, Arthur was relegated to wait while his father took the extra moments to finish the letter and re-fold the vellum before turning his attention to his son.

After a pause, Uther turned to him and tucked his hands under his cloak and rested them behind his back. "I trust you have everything you need."

"Yes, Father." Arthur felt compelled to provide a list. "The knights are readied. The horses are saddled. Supply wagons have been filled; there is food, medicine and servants have been given their orders."

"Fine. Fine." Uther nodded. The moment drew on. In the distance they could hear voices and footsteps. In the courtyard below, the sounds of hoof steps over cobblestones echoed.

Arthur did not know what to say next. This war was sudden and unexpected. There was support, of course, but the swiftness of arrival had unnerved many; including the soldiers. It seemed to breed a confusion that had a particular momentum Arthur had never seen before. Twice it had nearly overtaken him and it was a fight to remain calm. Rumours surfaced and were spread like disease. The enemy had grown tenfold in size and ferocity. Genuine information morphed and distorted from repetition. This high keyed energy if left unchecked would hurt them all. They needed reassurance. Arthur took a deep breath and decided to seek his father's advice.

"Everyone seems overwrought."

"You can expect that when going to war."

The first volley failed. His father had not understood. Arthur tried again. "The men are anxious. Moreso than usual."

"Everyone is well-prepared. It is natural to be in high spirits and uncertain about the unknown." Their eyes met. His father's gaze pierced him. "And you?"

"Me?" Arthur had not expected the question. "I am fine. I am confident we will do well." The words felt like dust in his mouth. It was more than a lie; it was an expression given by rote to a father who would hear nothing else and by a son who wanted nothing more that to make his father proud.

"Arthur." His father spoke abruptly. "This war will be dangerous and you can be headstrong. Can I have your word that you will consider Geraint's council?"

Geraint? This was about Geraint? In a flash, Arthur's temper flared. Gone were any feelings of fondness and filial affection. Uther had not wanted to meet to say goodbye. He had wanted to meet to solidify the military campaign. "Is that all you have to say to me? No good luck? No godspeed? Do you trust me so little you have to take these final minutes to tutor me?"

Uther winced noticeably – perhaps regret but more likely in irritation, "No, Arthur. That is not what I meant." He turned away from his son and walked away a pace. Arthur followed in his wake.

"Then why did you say it?" Arthur felt another surge of anger. His feelings of anxiety about going to war fed the fury. He had been to battle before and knew it would be harsh; frightening; gory. A series of memories flashed before his eyes – deepening his unease. The only vent for it were these few moments. His show of temper expanded, seeming to satisfy his base need to express rage, no matter how it came about.

"I am merely making a suggestion, Arthur." Uther turned on his heel and came back from his momentary lapse with an anger that instantly met his own. "You need not be so headstrong in battle as to ignore sound advice. Regardless of your view of Geraint, he is a good soldier. His counsel will be of great value to you."

"Headstrong? I am First Knight. I've proven myself in battle."

"Yes." His father shot back. "And you've also proven you can be wilfully defiant and unthinking if you chose. Your feelings about Geraint are quite obvious to me. I do not want you to ignore him for petty reasons of your ego. Geraint deserves your respect."

Arthur felt his throat go tight. Words stuck unuttered. This was not at all goodbye. It was a dressing down by a King; by a father; by the man Arthur most wanted to please. "Why don't you just have Geraint for a son, then?"

"Arthur. That is not fair. I am trying to - "

"But true, isn't it?" Arthur cut him off, wanting to push his father to react - to animate passion and anger and reaffirm that Arthur mattered. He wanted to bully his father into saying the things he was desperate to hear; that he mattered, that he was loved; that his father was afraid for him. "You'd rather have Geraint for a son." He repeated it, wanting to reproduce the fire that the flared in his father's eyes.

Uther turned to face his son and put his hands on his hips. "Arthur. You are my son. My only son. However, Geraint is a better strategist that you. He deserves your attention. He has no quarrel with you, Arthur. Do not ignore his advice simply because you have picked a quarrel with him."

"I have picked a quarrel? Only because you cannot treat me like a son! I am the Crown Prince! The First Knight! Your only son!"

"Then act like it, Arthur! Quit being so infernally childish!" Uther went on. "He is a soldier. A good one. I have yet to find any man in this court that has half his abilities of strategy and planning. We are going to war. You are leading troops into battle where men will die. Do not let any more men die that necessary. You would do well to heed his advice from time to time." Uther paused, but did not seem able or willing to stop the sarcasm filling his final words. "In the event the battles do not go quite as your Royal Highness has planned."

They were striking hard blows on each other – harder than if they wielded swords.

"That will not be a problem, father. I intend to win – with minimal losses. Despite what you think – I too am a good soldier. Goodbye, father. I will return anon." He turned on his heel and marched out. He left to the sound of his own footsteps echoing along the corridor.

There was no other word from his father. The silence rang out in the halls as he left and fuelled his anger for hours afterwards.


	9. Chapter 9 Goodbye 3

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome.

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_**Chapter 9**_

Goodbye #3

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The public parade of soldiers – where they would march past the King's balcony - would be in two hours. Camelot would line the streets and cheer and bid them safety and speedy return. It was the collective send-off from the community with ribbons and cheers and music. The families said goodbye in private; where there were tokens exchanged, tears and no music.

Both Geraint and Arthur had been among the senior officers when Uther had bid his farewells to his troops earlier that day. He had been serious but not maudlin. Astute and calm, he had provided a sense of purpose and confidence that seemed to buoy them all.

Geraint did not have a family. There were no private goodbyes. There were no final intimate moments where so much was said by being unsaid. Gaius had made an effort, of course, to wish her a safe return and passed on the thinnest volume of maps. Gwen had slipped her a small bundle that felt like it might be a jar. She placed a chaste kiss on Geraint's cheek and kept her eyes lowered – modestly mixing with patriotism. Gaius and Gwen were exceptions and she debated Merlin's possible role in their actions. Geraint was grateful however it had come about.

There was plenty of activity in the armoury but the stables were deserted. Activity was restricted to the far entrance where men periodically came in and out for a final piece of tack. None lingered long and she paid no attention to the transient company.

She had deliberately waited until the stables had cleared so she could be alone and use the preparation of her horse to be with her thoughts. Geraint began a final brushing of her horse and, once that done, she would begin to harness and saddle her horse.

There were footfalls. She took no notice.

The repetitive motions of the brushstrokes were a kind of meditation that centred her mind and allowed her to focus on the immediate future with calm. They would ride out until dusk. They would advance until they engaged the enemy. Two days hence they would be at the first battlefield, thus beginning – one hoped – a slow and steady march forward.

The footfalls did not diminish. They approached; solid and unhurried. Still she did not turn around – knowing that they were those of a soldier with some need of an item left behind. It was only when the footfalls stopped behind her that she turned. She whirled around to face the King. He stood looking down at her; face serious – eyes unreadable.

"May I?" His voice was gravelled, subdued. He held out his hand and was not quite asking permission.

"My liege." She did not immediately comply.

He put his hand over hers. His leather glove was soft, warm to the touch– a sheath containing strength.

"No. I insist." She tried to shake herself free of his hold. "This is my horse. I can …"

"Yes. I know you can." He said, continuing to wrangle the brush from her hand. He was insistent, refusing to be denied. "Allow me. I assure you. I have been a soldier all my life. Do you not trust me with your horse?" It was not a question particularly but a politeness of conversation before doing as he pleased.

"Yes, my liege," She was losing a battle that she had not been ready to fight. She was not prepared to allow the king to lower himself to livery and common labour. "Of course. I trust you. You are a fine horseman; a fine soldier."

"I am heartened you think so."

She tried again to interfere and retrieve the brush in the same manner in which he had taken it. She wrapped her fingers around the breath of his hand and found it unyielding. They had a silent battle of wills, she trying to relieve him of the brush; he using height and reach and skill to avoid her. Finally, he grabbed her wrist, pulled it away and held his hand high. The movement was swift; sharp. The King had finished with coyness.

"Please." He said it sharply, then softened again. "I have already had one argument today that I regret. Please do not be the cause of a second."

"Yes, my liege." She said and stepped aside.

It was difficult at first to watch him. But then she observed how he become entranced in the physical repetition of the work and he seemed to relax and re-centre himself. After he had finished with the brushing, he moved to the tack and saddle and she found a moment where she could insert herself and help. With only a few words between them, they prepared her horse. Their movements anticipated each other and a mutual awareness synchronized hem. At last, the horse was ready. Uther led the animal out of the stall and Geraint followed. He threw the reigns over the horse's head and faced her. Nodding, he indicated that he would boost her into the saddle. She could find no words to refuse him. Instead she lingered. He gazed at her without blinking, as if he knew that she was stalling for him to lose interest.

"Please. I insist."

He wove his gloved fingers and held them as a stirrup. She placed one foot in the cup of his hands, and soared upwards. For an instant, they were frozen in time – he strong and steady; she towering above him, suspended in the air.

Geraint looked down at the King. The sun lit his face. He was peering up at her with an expression she had never seen before. It was longing. A sadness. A worry that went beyond a King for a subject. All at once, she realized that she would miss him terribly, in a way that was unexpected. She would miss the sound of his voice; the timber of his laughter; the challenge in his questions when he pushed her to understanding. She would miss his catching her eye in court and understanding his thoughts when he gave her a sign so subtle that only she would see it. She would miss feeling special that went beyond simple sovereign allegiance.

All at once, she realized that he had become something to her. From the expression on his face at that moment – she knew she had become something to him in return. It was a strange and awkward pause. For an instant, she thought how easy it would be to let go and simply fall into his arms. She shook off the notion and settled in the saddle, keeping her gaze focused on him.

Uther broke the spell first by looking away.

"Godspeed," he said; his voice husky and low. "Be safe."

"Yes, my liege." She replied softly. Then she kicked her heels into the belly of the beast and left.


	10. Chapter 10

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome.

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_**Chapter 10**_

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Uther stood at the balcony and watched over his people. There were flags and music and cheers. Someone new to this place would think Camelot was having a celebration. They were, Uther supposed. They were celebrating the bravery of their young men; their brief lives and their willingness to battle to keep Camelot safe.

The wind picked up and the banners that hung over the railing began to rise. It was growing cold and there were dark clouds over the horizon. It was into that blackness that his troops were headed. As the Knights neared, he lifted a hand and waved. The understated action caused a cheer to rise from the crowds.

He was king and stayed behind. His wars were over. All the activity where he once was central had been passed to now Arthur. Uther's role was one of figurehead; strategist; negotiator; diplomat, chief military officer. He led the war from afar and from behind. It was a difficult vantage point from which to battle. Even after many years, it was the distance that confounded him. He understood the world of the soldier; thrived in it, flourished in it and being now removed – could only imagine it in every detail – the muted pounding sounds of horse hooves galloping over rich loam towards the enemy, the slicing through air and clashing of steel swords swung in battle, the euphoric sensation of adrenalin coursing through a powerful body that had killed and by doing so, had just escaped death. These sights and sounds were real to him. They were memories. They were the present. They plagued his dreams and jolted him out of sleep.

His crown meant Uther's battle weapons were thinking, meeting, negotiating, interpreting intelligence reports to discern the truth from lies. His goal was to find allies – trust the right ones and distinguish others in a way that his suspicions but allowed him to act in the interests of Camelot. His war was fought with a handshake, a glass of wine as a toast, letters and maps and table-top scenarios.

He brokered peace and – when needed – made sweeping decisions that would affect alliances and enemies alike. His responsibilities were distant from the battlegrounds that Arthur and Geraint now fought.

Another cheer brought him back to the present. This parade that passed in front of him was his way to materially touch his decision to send his soldiers to war. He – like all the crowds below - had come here for some kind of comfort. It was his way of saying goodbye and thank you.

It was a goodbye for everyone except Arthur.

God help Arthur, he prayed. Give him the sense to listen to good advice. Let him be strong enough to put his pride aside and admit when he is wrong. Let all the sword blows all fall upon his shield. Let all the arrows miss their mark and land beside him. Not my son. Never my son. So it please you, God.

Uther considered the prayer. Arthur was a good son. He was brave; smart when he wasn't wrapped up in a temper; a very good soldier. So how did their conversations always seem to end up badly? It was as if conflict was necessary for them to communicate. If only Arthur had had the benefit of a mother. The familiar regret resurfaced. Then, he softened. Be safe. Godspeed, my beloved son.

His son's face was pale and when he looked up, the expression was blank. Arthur's respectful motions were perfunctory and cold. He stared, focusing in a dead middle space. There was not a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. It was a deliberate retreat that only Uther would notice. It was as if Arthur did not have anything to see. Anger or hate would have been preferable to Uther. They had stopped yelling at each other but they were still fighting.

I am your king; your *father*, he thought angrily. Look at me!

Geraint's platoon followed behind. By contrast – much less regal but still displayed a respectable force. They had less trappings and finery but they had the heart of the crowds. These men came from the commoners – the farmers and villagers and cobblers and servants.

Geraint let his platoon in a salute to the king. It inspired another swell of cheering.

Uther started at Geraint looking for something he could not describe and wondering what about this soldier had overcome him at the stables. Uther had been momentarily transfixed by some unknown expression in Geraint's face. Uther had felt a strange set of oneness; a harmony of being as they saddled the horse that was unnatural. Uther had friends but never any where so close in mind – as if they were unified in thought and movement. Geraint had an air of loneliness and solitude that Uther had natural affinity for. It was as if only solitude of another would resolve his own.

Perhaps it was the anxiety of a soldier preparing for war. Or as simple as Uther anticipating the absence of one who had became a friend – more than a friend – a rare kind of confidant. Or perhaps it was the hidden anguish of watching another young man go off to war and knowing that it had been done at the King's bidding.

At yet, deep down, Uther knew it was not those things but something else potent and unnameable. There was a strangeness to what had happened in the stables. It had been almost nothing to lift Geraint into the air. Looking up at him, Uther saw eyes that were bright with youth and vulnerability. The expression on Geraint's face as he looked down at him – it was an emotion that had come from a deep place – unhideable; genuine. What had that emotion been? Uther wondered – feeling colour rise in his cheeks. Had his own face mirrored the profound adoration Geraint had shown him? The sensation had overcome Uther suddenly and swept over him like heat from a blazing fire. Without warning, he had felt an overpowering sensation – to take Geraint into his own arms and protect him from all he was about to face. The feeling had grown, morphed into an ache that seized him – a profound wanting of something intimate and sacred – that he would not, could not admit to himself. It was all he could do to keep control of himself and resist doing what every nerve, every muscle most compelled him to do. The only escape he had was to look away – and still, he could hardly trust his voice. It had come from deep inside him – from where the wellspring of emotion resided. Perhaps it was just a sign that he too had become swept up in the passion of the moment. And still, it pulled Uther's thoughts in directions that startled him and stirred up feelings he could hardly resist.

After a final wave, Uther watched the troops long after Geraint had faded from view.


	11. Chapter 11

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome.

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Chapter 11

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It was well past midnight. The camp had finally settled into slumber.

Merlin stumbled forward and sank down onto a log by the fading fire. He put his elbows to his knees and set the heels of his hands into his eye sockets hard enough to see stars. He needed to be by himself. Shifting, he buried his head in his folded arms and tried to calm himself. Silence roared in his ears.

The camp was quiet save the sounds of slumber and night creatures foraging for food. Since dawn, there had been nothing but noise – the roaring sounds of battle; metal against metal in mortal combat, screams of men dying, hollers from men giving direction.

They had been ambushed.

Geraint had been the advance scout and his sudden signal had been their only warning. Then Merlin was lost in a swarm of advancing soldiers, horses galloping forward; swords being drawn – all eyes forward; no one seeing him. By the time they had passed, Merlin was rooted to the spot; transfixed by the fear of being run down or struck by a wayward blade.

The scenes of the day flashed through his mind like vivid illuminated pages of a book flipped at a speed that was too fast to understand. Each image was sketched out in colour; with the chaos of sound and movement as accents. What Merlin did not see, he heard and his mind filled in the images. What little he still did not know he discovered as bodies were delivered to his feet.

Merlin had always seen a battle from a stationary position – a village, a city or a fortified castle. The action was controlled. He had been surrounded by provisions; protected by walls and battlements and sentries. There were ample resources to support the soldiers and all the provisions were nearby. There were others to do the kind of work he was now required to do.

"Bury them," Arthur had instructed from his mount. Geraint cried out from up ahead – it drew Arthur's attention and he headed back to the front.

As Merlin dug the first shallow grave, there had been a stray arrow. It had come from nowhere. It split the air with a roar and landed in a tree trunk – an inch from his neck. Merlin staggered; feeling his life contract and expand like a bolt of lightening. Fire flamed his skin – his hair stood on end. Mortality circled him and clutched his heart until it momentarily stopped beating. Death reminded him of his fragility and how infinitesimally random the difference between alive and dead was out here. This was not a game. Not a fiction. It was a war.

After the first grave, came a second and a third.

Merlin looked down at another body. The skin was white; the limbs lifeless. Merlin recognized Sir Cedrick. He had been gutted; sliced from neck to groin. As he moved the body, entrails spilled out – it was all that was left of a man who only that morning Arthur had embraced and called a friend, a proud and noble knight. And now? Now he was buried in a shallow grave with a perfunctory ceremony and covered in rocks to keep marauding animals at bay.

Echoes of rocks stacking against rocks echoed in Merlin's ears. The sound mixed in with the thud of a shovel slicing into dirt and the thump as loam was cast aside. Another echo of men shouting. Merlin shut tight his eyes as if it might erase the sounds.

Then came Sir Edward. His throat had been slit. The armour and tunic were saturated in blood – darkening to black as it dried. Edward and Cedrick were brothers; the only sons of an old man who would collapse under the weight of this loss.

Please stop this, Merlin had prayed. No more must die. Then came men from Geraint's platoon. Humble attire made no difference. They too were dead all the same. Same grey skin. Same gaping wounds. Same blood. Same graves. Same. Same. Same.

The crash of steel against steel continued what seemed like forever. Then an eerie silence that made Merlin search for the cause. He could see them off in the distance – gathering into a single mass. All at once a cheer rose up. Merlin looked at all the graves. Was this what winning looked like?

They returned; galloping at breakneck speeds with spirits so high they could hardly focus. The adrenalin lasted for hours and while Merlin tried to prepare a meal, the men were animated, enervated fierce and hungry – ravenously looking to him for food. Impatient and hovering, they interfered – stealing plates, food, running in between and among the fire. Their appetites became a single voracious hunger that demanded satisfaction.

Merlin served what he could muster and handed out the bowls to the Knights and made sure Arthur was the first to receive food.

After a single spoonful, Arthur announced, "This is disgusting," he spat out the mouthful. "Completely inedible. Merlin, you will not serve another meal like this. He then turned the entire bowl and spilled the contents onto the ground. "I would rather starve. Geraint's men are fed better than this. If you are looking for me, I will be at his camp – hat in hand – asking for left overs. Merlin – this is humiliating. See that this never happens again."

The Knights acted as one and followed Arthur's lead. One by one, they tossed empty bowls at his feet and left. Merlin had simply stood there – muscles aching from the endless digging; ears ringing from the day's confusion – and watched them march away single file.

The fire hissed. Merlin heard an owl rise. There was a fear that permeated this night air. It was his own fear – for his life, for Merlin and Geraint; for those of the others. He fought back the drowning feeling of his own utter uselessness. He could not stop this. Not any of it. Not the war. Not his own path. He could not leave. He had no magic that could change any of this. Not for Sir Cedrick or Edward or any of the others.

Merlin let the sounds and the memories wash over him until he could not longer bear it. A sound welled in him and he gasped to keep it inside. He gasped again and began to shake. Then he heard footsteps from behind and he swallowed to keep down his emotion. There was a sitting beside him – feet scraping the ground and a shift of the log as the visitor sat.

After a while – he felt a nudge; from shoulder to shoulder. There was a subdued voice "You alright?"

Merlin held his breath. An answer? He could say no and tell the truth. He could say nothing and be thought possibly hiding a no. Or he could say yes and hope he was a good liar.

"What are you still doing up" Merlin squared himself with a deep breath and lifted his head. He looked at Geraint.

"I'm on watch." Geraint said. "You?"

He shrugged without answering.

"Tough day?" Geraint asked without getting an answer. "Here" He passed over a jar of preserves. Peaches. Merlin recognized the jar. "This might patch things up a bit." After another long pause, he continued. "You are going to have to learn how to feed them."

Merlin did not speak.

"There's wild game. Herbs. Morels. Other edibles. Use them with the provisions we've brought."

Geraint fiddled with the leather that lashed his two middle fingers together of his sword hand. His expression was sombre, distant. There was a gash across the back of his wrist. Blood spattered his tunic. Merlin wondered whose it was.

"This is hard," Merlin said finally, in a voice that hardly made a sound.

"I know."


	12. Chapter 12

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome.

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_**Chapter 12**_

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Gaius squatted, resting his hands on bended knees. He lowered himself so eye level was even with the complicated and interconnected glassworks that spanned his main worktable. It was an intricate affair that had started at dawn with a few samples of herbs and flowers. With a mortar and pestle, he began an experiment that had seen him miss all of breakfast and lunch, and having only bread and butter for dinner. With three aborted attempts and one critical error behind him, he had so far run this version of the experiment flawlessly. Soon, steam would circle around the blown glass coils and condense into precious distillate.

Gaius studied the contents carefully looking for any signs of an amber liquid. These day-long experiments had become commonplace for him. Day and night had become irrelevant to Gaius without Merlin to anchor his days. It helped – too – that he could set out bended blown glass, connector attachments, expensive coils and receptacles and leave open flames unattended without fear of Merlin accidentally … well … disrupting things. Immersion in science was a convenient distraction from worrying about the boy; from wondering where he was and if he was safe and fed and dry and that it was "when", not "if" he would come home. This sophisticated chemistry laboratory that he had contrived allowed Gaius to block out reminders of war and how much he dearly missed Merlin.

Gaius made a minute adjustment to a flame, turned over a timer whose sands had just run out, then proceeded to annotate his instructions. The small flame rose. Steam began to accumulate in the stoppered beaker. A creak at the doorway only vaguely caught his attention. He continued his notes. Gwen would know to wait until he was finished and leave him undisturbed. There was another creak and then footfalls. Not Gwen, he thought. A patient, he thought with some annoyance. This interruption was not welcomed. The footsteps approached. Bother.

The steps halted. No one spoke. The weight of having someone watching and waiting began to annoy him. He needed peace and quiet to concentrate and avoid repeating hours of delicate chemistry.

"Yes. What is it?" Gaius said roughly. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Hello, Gaius."

He stopped and rose slowly, reluctantly putting aside his notes in favour of duty.

"Uther?"

"Hello, Gaius." He stood in the doorway – back lit from the hallway with the room's open flames flickering shadows on his face. Uther had a way of being still that even now after all these years could unnerve him. It always reminded him of the utter motionlessness before a raging storm – the breathless air, the suffocating wait – then without warning, an explosion of activity that shattered peace.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" Gaius eyed the glass coils and saw a puff of steam rise in a thick cloud. What was happening?

"I am not certain it is a pleasure at all. I see you are occupied." He indicated the experiment with a sweep of a gloved hand. The king could be gracious.

"Not at all." Gaius heard himself say it and thought he sounded remarkably like Merlin. Had the boy taught him this? Surely not.

"Gaius," he said. "My friend. You are a terrible liar."

"Are you sick?" Gaius had learned the diversion tactic from Merlin as well. It did come in handy when one was not on the receiving end.

"No."

Gaius wondered if there was a polite way to get rid of the King. While their friendship was long and they did not stand on ceremony in some circumstances, he had the sensation that Uther wanted to talk. He eyed the glassworks and a sudden change in the colour of the steam. He knew he had a choice – finish the experiment or talk to the King.

"What brings you here?"

"We have … known each other a long time. We are friends, are we not?"

"Yes. Of course." Gaius answered. This circumspection did not help with his choice. There was still time to save the experiment. He could not bear to start this a fifth time. The steam was too dense and he needed to rescue it. He lurched forward and grabbed a set of tongs, grabbing a test tube. "Can you move aside, Uther? This apparatus is quite hot and I have to …"

"I understand." Uther said, stepping aside. Patiently, he waited while Gaius switched test tubes, stoppered one, set another in place, adjusted the flame and jotted down another series of notes. Time seemed to draw on. Still he did not leave.

Gaius knew he could not continue with his experiment as long as Uther was there; nor would Uther leave him without whatever he had come for. Gaius signed and let the product of hours of work slip away. With a single cut of the flame, he abandoned the experiment. He felt a sharp regret but his duty to king was more important. "Alright, Uther." He turned to the man, resigned but respectful, "What is this about?"

Uther did not answer immediately. The stillness endured. The expression revealed nothing. Gaius imagined a distant roll of thunder – a harbinger of news? After a time, Uther lifted his hand and patted his chest, then removed a slim trifold from his brown leather doublet. Fondling it momentarily – as if considering the contents one last time – he passed it to Gaius. There was no need for explanation or instruction.

Gaius unfolded it and read. "In your midst, there lives a traitor. Signed, a friend."

He looked up at Uther, peering up from the vellum. "I did not write this."

"No. I did not suppose you did."

"Then what?" Gaius refolded the letter and handed it back to Uther.

"I don't know who wrote this. Nor who the traitor could be. I need someone I can trust. My –" he paused and Gaius had the feeling he had to think about the right words - "best … advisors … have been deployed. I need … debate."

Gaius peered at him. Here was a man in want of two people – Geraint and Arthur. He needed them both because between them they could argue out the most subtle of ideas and tease out the essence of the matter. Geraint was particularly insightful. Arthur's counterpoint was no less valued.

"Uther. I'm a doctor, not a soldier."

"Yes. I realize that. I need you nonetheless. Please. I require discourse."

Gaius offered Uther a chair almost as Uther took it. The pair settled down and Gaius poured a drink for he and Uther. When they were each holding a generous goblet of wine, Gaius began.

"What makes you think the letter is even real? It could be a lie to turn you against your court. Or keep you suitably distracted. "

"Yes. I had thought of that. And yet. My only surprise is that there is a letter. The contents do not."

"What do you mean?"

"I believe there really is a traitor in my court."

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_**Author Notes: **_

_**My apologies to all Star Trek: Original Series fans. I simply could not resist.**_

_**For Arthur fans: Bear with us. He will come around … **_

_**Thank you to everyone who sent reviews. Cheers.**_

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	13. Chapter 13

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome.

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_**Chapter 13**_

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Arthur walked between the tents towards the low campfire. Scarlet embers rose, pushed upwards by flames then reached an apex and died. It was late. Dusk had long since settled and through the gaps in the treetops, he could see the beginnings of stars as the blue faded to inky blackness. Ahead, Merlin walked to and fro, finding bowls and serving out a stew for the gathered knights. The one thing Arthur could say for his servant's cooking was that it was improving – the current state being almost edible. While he had absolutely no proof, he harboured an unspoken suspicion that Geraint had had a hand in these culinary changes.

Of all the complaints of being on this campaign so far, the biggest had been the food. Even today – with its seeming endless swamps and vast tracks of mud – could be born as long as there was the promise of a bowl of something filling and hot at the end of the day. By the expression of the knights who had settled and hovered over bowls, Merlin may well have achieved at least one of the two.

As Arthur neared the campfire, he noted the tack spread here and there in minor disarray. Merlin was not a particularly organized man and – looking at the slight disorganization of the other knights – Arthur wondered who was influencing whom. He came steadily forward and Merlin noticed his approach. Quickly, he set about ladling out a bowlful of stew and held it out for consumption. Arthur took the bowl and then held out his second hand, waiting a moment without satisfaction.

"Spoon." Arthur said.

"Oh. Right." Merlin scrambled in a small kit bag and pulled on out, then began picking off bits of grime, and then polished it on his sleeve. "That alright, then?"

"Hardly."

Merlin took back the spoon and swished the utensil in a washbowl filled with cold water. "Afraid of a little flavour?"

"Yes, frankly." Arthur said, waiting for a second polish – this time from a towel designed for the purpose. Merlin waited expectantly while Arthur spooned up a mouthful, blew off some steam and then ate. He swallowed without effort.

"Tolerable."

Merlin broke out a smile at the word.

"Thank you," Arthur added as an after thought.

"You're quite welcome," Merlin finished, beaming. Such a big effect from such a small gesture, Arthur thought.

He moved to a spot around the campfire and sat with his men and ate. Once dinner was completed, they continued deconstructing the day's advance. At some point, Arthur noticed a distinct change in the camp. He could tell by the sounds, change in volume and the general feel of the place that Geraint's men had arrived. They would pass through without stopping and establish the forward position through the night.

Night. It was strange – Arthur thought. Geraint took the chance for the night shift with an interest that Arthur did not expect. Night was hard – certainly as the moon waned through its phases. Arthur often wondered why Geraint had asked for this shift. There was a niggling doubt in his mind why and wondered if it had to do with Arthur himself. Had Geraint deferred to the Crown Prince? There was no place for royalty on the battlefield, Arthur thought.

From the shadows, Geraint approached on horseback. At the perimeter, he dismounted easily, descending with a smoothness that ended in a muted sound. Using limited movement, he tied his horse. The white horse was mud up to the belly and Geraint was equally filthy. Even covered in dirt, there was an odd neatness to the man – an odd orderliness to the unkempt appearance. Geraint approached in confident strides – with the air of a leader - settling his hand on the hilt of his sword as he walked to stabilize the movement. The two silver dirks were tucked into the opposing side of his belt and gave him an overall balance.

Arthur considered Geraint. There was a neatness about him that Arthur found impossible to achieve. Merlin of course did not help. It was nothing in particular, more a subtle way of being. Geraint had an essence; a certain crispness of edging or a precision of fit that was both effortless and impossible to copy try as Arthur might. This way had been passed on to the Second Platoon somehow – perhaps unconsciously – and their tidiness became effortless order. They had fewer worldly goods to worry about than the Knights. Lack of possession could be freeing.

Arthur continued to study him closely and observed the leather wrist guards binding the lower arms and the unusual wrapping of his middle two fingers. Geraint was full of these tiny adjustments – little tricks and aids that made the most of a less than powerful body. The neatness, the minor alterations, the studied methods all contributed to Geraint's efficient maximizing effect.

All this culminated where it mattered most - in combat. It intrigued Arthur to watch Geraint fight. At the first battle – they had – by pure coincidence of being ambushed – fought side by side. Arthur had clearly more power, more abilities and more brute strength. But where Arthur comparatively lumbered, Geraint was light and swift; precise and deadly. He cut in with a sword almost before he could be seen, let alone stopped. In close range, the dirks became simple, almost elegant weapons to dispatch a man. Nothing needed but in tight and a small patch of exposed neck or a split in the chain mail. Like a serpent; a single strike at it was over. But Geraint's range suffered from being small and there was one occasion that Arthur saved him from serious damage. As Arthur cut the soldier down, they had exchanged glances. Each knew what had just happened. Arthur had saved Geraint's life. Geraint's thanks was in the form of a brief nod. Then the enemy surged again and they returned to battle. It was not a debt that lasted long. Minutes later, Geraint returned the favour with a mortal blow to an attacker that left Arthur unscathed.

The campaign had shifted early and the two platoons advanced their strategy immediately after the first ambush. The enemy had been retreating but not easily – making a point of attrition with one or two soldiers their dead every day. The soldiers had not been lost in battle; rather picked off from an untimely crossbow or a trap or guerrilla attack. The randomness and unpredictability had set both platoons on edge and paranoia seemed to settle around them like a haze, enveloping their senses and replaced the ordinary with threats and suspicion. Reluctantly, Arthur was forced to admit that Geraint's presence was not only a stabilizing factor for the troops but he was also – as Arthur's father had maintained all along – a good strategist and sound advisor. Arthur did not know when exactly it had happened but he had discovered one day with some surprise that he looked forward to their twice-a-day sit reps. This situation reports happened when one battalion overtook the other in their pre-determined leapfrog strategy. It proved an efficient military advance that allowed them to move unimpeded and largely unchallenged. Without swords and arrows – men survived. This minimizing of lost life was another aspect of Geraint that worked to shift Arthur's mind. Perhaps – just perhaps – Geraint was worthy of the second platoon after all. In any event, he filled a space that Arthur never knew he had needed.

Geraint continued forward, with singularity of purpose. It occurred to Arthur that there might be something amiss. Arthur rose to greet him.

"Your majesty," he nodded.

Your majesty. Arthur considered the term. The king was "my liege". Could this be sarcasm? Merlin had reassured him that this was Geraint simply being polite. Again, Arthur wondered if he was receiving special treatment simply because of his lineage.

"Geraint."

"Did you notice anything unusual today?" He cut clearly to the heart of the matter, dispensing with all preamble.

The question caught Arthur slightly off guard. He was unwilling to answer in the negative and responded obliquely, "Such as?"


	14. Chapter 14

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome.

Author's note: For grins, re-read Ch 13 first …

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_**Chapter 14**_

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Even at night, in the darkened shadows, Geraint could feel his eyes upon her. She approached the camp on horseback and knew he was aware of their approach. He watched people closely and noticed even the smallest detail, yet had the restraint not to reveal the observations – at least not immediately. Only when it suited his purpose did a revelation emerge – usually to win a point in an argument. Arthur was becoming so like his father in this regard. Uther, however, had far more patience that his son. The king trusted himself implicitly and that confidence gave him the power to wait – weeks or even months – before he leveraged what he knew. It made Uther dangerous – for he knew the difference between the first opportunity to trap an enemy and the glacial wait until the most advantageous, the most decisive attack emerged. He had the courage to let lesser chances pass, knowing better ones would follow.

And yet – Geraint thought – for all their watching - neither one gave any hint or indication that they suspected she was a woman. Once – she had caught an expression in Uther's eyes – an intense longing – that he clearly did not understand and was trying to suppress. Perhaps it was the acute subconscious perception of a man with worldly experience and skilled at battle – where keen instinct was a cornerstone of survival and power. There were times – strange coincidences – unexplainable synchronicities that in hindsight proved to be explained only by actions driven by a finely tuned intuition. Uther possessed a sensibility that went beyond attentiveness. He was always aware when something had persisted in eluding him – and he fought to pinpoint what it was. The blank must be filled. All must be explained.

In sleepless nights, when her mind could turn to fancy, she often wondered how Uther would react if he discovered her secret. She could envision their breathless culmination – his profound satisfaction at the revelation of who she was that would permit him to finally surrender to his instincts. He would find her willing; curious and innocent. She imagined him hungry, dominant, relentless but reigning in his passion just enough for her to understand this roughness was unintentional and almost impossible for him to control. Thinking about his primal impulses and yet struggling to rein in those urges for the sake of showing her a crude tenderness made her cheeks burn. She felt the heat spread. The memory of his scent was in the air and made her light-headed. Geraint reminded herself – to Uther Pendragon: King of Camelot, she was just a soldier. Nothing more.

She could feel her face hot and was grateful for the cold night air. In the dark, she could be herself, think her thoughts and be protected by darkness. The cotton bindings around her chest hid what slight hint her modest body might otherwise reveal. Under a black sky, she could remain a woman and still be seen as a warrior. Men saw what they expected to see. Limiting their vision under the cover of nightfall was an appropriate strategy. It gave her even more latitude to remain undiscovered.

Geraint halted her horse and dismounted, pushing a bit further out to avoid the thick layers of mud. She landed almost without sound. Arthur continued to watch – at first from the side, then turning his head to face her. Sir Keith noticed Arthur's interest and followed his gaze. It caused a chain reaction and thus similarly distracted Sir Ellis from a conversation. Others did likewise. After the ambush – everyone seemed to be watching everyone else. They were becoming steeped in suspicion, nervousness and preparedness for a surprise attack.

Geraint had spent the last while considering her approach to this situation report. She had reviewed what had happened over and over in her mind – replaying the events of the day for any tiny flaw in her observations, choices or distractions that might have led her to a different conclusion. Tactical errors were always possible. Arthur would provide the test against which to check what she had experienced. Geraint continued forward, with singularity of purpose.

Arthur rose to greet her. He stood – not in defence – but as a matter of course. He gave her the once over and she was certain he was disapproving of the mud she wore up to her waste. Drizzling rain was a constant irritant and it was impossible to remain free of it. He had had time to shed his coating of dirt and she envied his dry clothing. Warm and dry and safe, she thought. What more did anyone need in life to be content? Seeing Arthur enjoy two out of three on a remote battlefield reminded her that a Crown Prince did indeed lead a separate life. She felt a flash of envy.

"Your majesty," Geraint nodded. She watched a shadow cross Arthur's face. It was there almost every time she addressed him. Merlin had accounted for it by explaining that Arthur did not stand so formally on tradition. Geraint – however – found it impossible not to defer to him. It had been drummed into her habits for far too long and at far too young an age for her to speak otherwise. His father had the highest term of respect; Arthur the second. King and heir deserved no less.

"Geraint."

"Did you notice anything unusual today?" She dispense with preamble. Arthur did not tend towards frivolous conversation and certainly not with her. Best to keep to the point. There was ample to discuss.

Arthur responded without commitment. "Such as?" He put a hand to the hilt of his sword reflexively.

He stepped forward and drew away from his knights. Sir Keith did not lessen his interest. Sir Ellis followed Sir Keith's lead. Merlin, too, had made a slight move forward as she approached and surreptitiously circled closer to hear the conversation. He was drying dishes and had slowed the process until he did nothing more than drag a cloth in the same slow circle over an unchanging plate.

Geraint debated carefully. To pursue her line of thought without warning would most certainly put Arthur in a needlessly defensive position and likely end in an argument. Her alternative was to ask his permission.

"Will you indulge me a few questions first? I will reveal my aim but I do not want to … taint … your memory."

"My memory?" He crossed his arms. It was an unconscious preparation for an attack. His habit, too, when talking to his father. A "v" formed at his brow.

The listeners seemed to ease forward to better hear. She wanted Arthur alone; not include his knights who would over hear and unwittingly have their conversation distorted by repetition to the rest of the Knights and the Second Platoon. There was enough nervousness without adding to it. Geraint lifted her chin and nodded towards them to indicate their overt interest. Arthur swung around, understanding the need for privacy and waved his hand.

"Leave us."

They retreated but not quickly. Both Arthur and Geraint waited. When satisfied at their distance, Arthur turned back to face her. A lifted eyebrow was her invitation to continue.

"Your majesty. Do you remember crossing a river today?"

"A river? No."

"An overflowing stream, then?"

"No."

"Brook?"

"No."

"Surely there was some water you passed. The mud must have come from somewhere."

"No. Not that I recall. Mud was from the rain." He sounded impatient at her transparent ruse. "What are you getting at?"

"I, too, did not pass any river or stream or brook or tributary of any sort. We followed in your path. The mud made that simple."

"And that is unusual why?" Arthur adjusted his crossed arms, locking them in but sounded interested.

Geraint reached into her tunic, "Do you have your map?"

"Yes. Of course." Arthur mirrored her withdrawal of a six-fold sheet of vellum. He was quick to match her. They unfolded the papers in unison. Arthur led them to Merlin's make-shift table and waved a hand. Merlin had paid close enough attention that by the time Arthur asked to make room, there was enough space cleared for the two maps to rest side by each.

"Where are we?" Geraint mused tracing her fingers over the paper.

"Right here." Arthur located their position easily and pointed out the reference point so they were both oriented the same way on their respective maps. Side by side she and Arthur traced various contours, sited landmarks, observed mountains, remembered the course they had taken. They fell into an easy rhythm of questions and answers – confirming each other's conclusions, filling in blanks in their respective memories and accurately retraced their path for the last three days.

"We came from here." Geraint pointed out the last piece of history. "And what is between those two points?"

Arthur leaned over the table and studied it intently. He found the answer and straightened abruptly. He looked at Geraint with sharp blue eyes – having immediately understood the implication. "A river." His voice was soft.

"And your map?" He pulled hers over his to confirm what they both knew.

"The same."

"Geraint. With ever detail, these are the same maps."

"Yes. The scribe was faithful. They are identical."

"And – " Arthur arrived at the uneasy conclusion that Geraint had carried with her since she had discovered it " – the are both identically _wrong_."


	15. Chapter 15

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome.

Author's note: For grins, re-read Ch 14 first …

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_**Chapter 15**_

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Merlin emptied the two dozen bowls of final dregs. There was almost no waste; almost all eaten that night. For Merlin, it indicated a genuine culinary milestone. Geraint had been of material and surreptitious guidance. First – Geraint introduced him to flame control and then to flavour and fill. Merlin could now capably boil meat over an open fire. With more coaching, he had progressed to adding a variety of herbs to make it tasty and then putting in additional filler – mushrooms and other foods – to round out an edible stew.

"Leave us." He heard Arthur say to his Knights who sat around the fire with him. The conversation with Geraint would be as it always was – private between two leaders.

Merlin had a position of privilege and he knew it. Being a servant to Arthur and beneath notice had its advantages. Merlin used his chores to give him an excuse to stay – to linger and listen to their twice daily sit reps. While others were ordered away, he never seemed to be included in Arthur's direction. That is – Merlin never felt compelled to obey on first announcement. Arthur – for his part – never pursued it. Not when Merlin had cooking and cleaning to be done. More often than not, Merlin could camouflage himself in chores and remain unnoticed. It was that way tonight; plenty of bowls, plates, cutlery and other utensils to wash. If he remained quiet, he would fade to the background.

"Mud was from the rain." Arthur sounded impatient. "What are you getting at?"

The day had been hard. Rain – that constant, relentless, dreary, pouring rain – had soaked everything; men, horses, equipment, supplies, and weapons. They had travelled through open fields where rain worked its way into every body crevice and fabric fold and left hands pruned and blisters in boots. Rain mixed loamy clay with horse hooves to make copious amounts of mud – the kind that stuck to everything and would not wipe away, but streak and mesh into leather and wool. When they struck camp, Merlin's first job was to provide Arthur clean, dry clothes and it had taken Merlin some time to remove all the mud from his master's discarded uniform.

The day had been hard, too, in other ways. Yet another two soldiers had been killed without warning. Always – it was from a crossbow. They had taken to calling this unseen enemy by the weapon of choice. "Crossbow" had become the personification for this threat. Merlin had begun to wonder if in that first battle whether or not it had truly been a stray arrow that had just missed him. Had it been directed at him specifically? He mulled over why he might be a target and could find none. He was not a leader; not a soldier, nor an obvious threat; servants never were. Yet, the more he considered it – the more he began to think that the arrow had struck too close for it to have been accidental.

His minor brush with the Fates reminded him once again what Arthur must face as the leader in battle. The Crown Prince was a brave and worthy man to overcome the natural human fear of death and instead march into battle every day with his head held high. This kind of confident nobility reminded Merlin why he was so willing to give his life for the Prince. Merlin would sacrifice his life so that Arthur would live. Merlin had done so before and knew – with every fibre of his being – knew that he would do so again; willingly, without hesitation. Arthur must live at all costs. Their destinies were entwined; Merlin dedicated his life to protecting the life of the once and future King of Camelot.

Such noble thoughts were grounded by reality as Merlin pulled another bowl from the dishwater and searched for a patch of quasi-dry on the dishtowel. He swung the bowl back and forth, letting the dripping spray over the grass. Defending the Crown Prince was not as glamorous as one might have expected.

Geraint reached into his tunic, "Do you have your map?"

Every day – for a week – they had advanced using the trails outlined on these maps. Every day, they had lost one or two soldiers to Crossbow. The losses had made them vigilant and uneasy. The soldiers who had died had wandered too close to their established perimeter and were picked off by Crossbow. Arthur ordered increased vigilance and pairing to protect against the long-range hidden assailant. For the most part he was obeyed. The knights however were used to more personal freedom and not everyone was happy about it. Sir Ellis along with Sir Keith were particularly vocal and presented Arthur with several reasons why they should be allowed freedom of movement; most significant that they were men of action and skill. Showing the enemy cowering fear would only make Crossbow bolder. Geraint's men, however, were more compliant. The soldiers of the Second Platoon did not feel their rights infringed upon. They understood their lives were vulnerable – for crossbows pierced chain-mail easily – knight and foot-soldier alike.

"Where are we?" Geraint mused.

Arthur and Geraint began meticulously cross referencing and annotating their two maps – making adjustments equally on both so that the lay of the land matched their agreed-upon experience of the terrain. That there were two of them had been critical for accuracy. Where Arthur blanked, Geraint filled in. Where Geraint had not recalled, Arthur knew for certain.

Arthur and Geraint had begun to co-exist in a partnership. Where possible, Geraint deferred to Arthur and always gave him the loyalty Crown Prince and First Knight deserved. Arthur – ever stilted and awkward – held back his anger long enough to hear Geraint when he voiced opposition. It was of great benefit to both men that Geraint was careful how and when he disagreed. Merlin realized that Geraint did little accidentally. He was a very thoughtful, deliberate man and it gave him many advantages in strategy. Perhaps this is part of why he had Uther's implicit confidence. He always acted with astute care – as if he were in perpetual defence of some unknowable territory.

"And … " Arthur pronounced, " – they are both identically wrong."

Merlin was stacking another bowl and looked up involuntarily from his dishes. The stack tipped and clattered out of order. Merlin scrambled to stifle the noise. What? He looked from Arthur to Geraint – back and forth twice – to see if there was something in their faces that would suggest a joke, that this was humour to relieve the tension of the camp. Surely it was not as Arthur had said it – an unexpected but confirmed fact of their situation. Merlin avoided Arthur's over the shoulder glare and restacked the bowls as quietly as possible to best hear their conversation.

Wrong? How could the maps be wrong?

"There are enough mistakes here that we should send a scout into enemy territory." Geraint said. "We need to know if we are heading into a trap."

Enemy territory? Merlin frowned. Arthur must not go. Advanced scouting was a solitary endeavour. He would be unprotected by his army. Crossbow could easily make him the next victim.

"I agree." Arthur said. "I will assume the advanced guard position and … "

"You?" Geraint said it quietly, without heat, yet Merlin felt the one word shift the whole mood between them, even at his distance. The air bristled with tightness. Arthur had clearly not expected resistance. Geraint licked his lips. He bowed his head slightly and asked the question softly. "Would it not be preferable for me to go?"

"You? Why you and not me? I am First Knight. This is my responsibility." Arthur did not hesitate.

Geraint did not answer and put his full attention to folding his map carefully staying faithful to the well-worn folds. Merlin knew he was buying time – thinking about what to say and just as importantly how to say it.

"Your majest-"

"Do not give me any Crown Prince nonsense. I won't have it. Let's face it –" Arthur barrelled on. "There are only two of us who have the skills to survey and advance undetected. Plus it will be extremely dangerous. Whoever goes is likely to encounter our mysterious Crossbow. I am not a coward."

Merlin thought he saw Geraint soften. In the deep shadows of night, Merlin imagined he might have seen a flicker of a stifled smile.

"So you agree that I _could_ take your place." Geraint – for whatever reason – was aiming to assume this role of scout.

Arthur would not go, Merlin concluded with relief. Then he realized that Geraint would be going. Merlin could only protect one of them and Merlin's destiny was not with Geraint. But did this mean Geraint's life was any less worthy of protecting? Would he save one friend to lose another? As a stone drops in water, ripples extend to distant shores. What if Geraint had some role to play in their murky future? Merlin plunged his hand in the cold water and began fishing the bottom of the wash bowl for spoons.

"I agree to nothing. I will not debate this with you. My mind is made up."

"An army needs its leader."

"You would not survive a fight with Crossbow."

Merlin began to feel anxious. Arthur could be so stubborn; blindly so. Geraint had not been heard and had spent too much time being careful and circumspect. Better to go on the direct attack when Arthur was like this. Even Merlin would have come up with a more aggressive counter. Silently, Merlin wondered how he would best manage following Arthur into this scouting expedition. How would he remain undiscovered by Arthur – and the knights? Perhaps he could feign an illness? Bah – that was silly. He swished his fingers around searching for more forks.

"Your armour is no more impermeable than mine. You are no less vulnerable." Geraint had not quite given up. There was fight left in him yet. Merlin watched on as their voices rose. The knights Arthur had earlier chased away took note of their strained conversation. They gathered – looking on and understanding that there was conflict.

Arthur pulled himself to full height and took a step forward, deliberately towering over Geraint. Arthur was over a head taller; much broader in shoulder and had a bearing – rooted and immovable - that defied disobedience. They assumed battle stance and stared at each other. They were the distance of a man's fist apart.

"You – " Arthur pronounced from above, " - are weak and scrawny."

Merlin stilled – his hand once again in the icy cold water, his fingertips delicately resting on the side of the basin. His eyes were open and he was paying absolute attention to the two men who stood toe to toe – in complete physical and philosophical opposition. And still Merlin did not see anything but a sudden blur. When it stopped, Geraint had drawn one of his dirks and had it pressing up into Arthur's chin hard enough that Arthur had to stretch upward to avoid his skin being pierced. Merlin gasped. He forgot the table and lunged forward in reflexive defence of Arthur. Water spilled out of the wash basin in a wave.

"And you …" Geraint countered, with an understated menace. "are very, very slow."

The two men started at each other in anger. Silent moments passed into the deadness of night while they each reigned in their respective tempers. Merlin felt his heart begin to pound. Nervously, he froze, not wanting any unexpected movement of his to spark a fight or be the distraction for either of them to exploit into a surprise attack. He waited breathlessly for the mood to break. Geraint took his time before he relented and slowly released Arthur and rebelted the dirk – never letting his eyes unlock from Arthur.

"That was grounds for insubordination." Arthur said. His voice was a fraction higher than usual but the man retained his control.

"Events have made us both uneasy. Let us agree we each have strengths." Geraint accepted Arthur's verbal truce. They were both working hard to keep peace. "The fact remains – I should go and you should stay. I have sufficient skill to be successful. You are First Knight and should stay with your troops. As you rightly pointed out, I am small and will be able to blend easier in any towns I encounter. I am entirely … forgettable … I am one of many. You and your destiny are singular. Even in disguise you are memorable."

"We have lost two men today at the fringes." Arthur was still not willing to relent. If it were not he, Arthur would not want it to be. "More ambushes from Crossbow. This may be too dangerous for either of us."

Merlin realized they had reached a stalemate on who would stay and who would go. The thought that neither of them would go dawned on him and cheered him momentarily. The brief peace evaporated as Geraint spoke.

"This information is critical. We cannot lead the army into a trap. I must go."

"No. I forbid it." The arms crossed.

Geraint let out a deep sigh, as if seeking a mediating position. "How about this …"

Geraint withdrew something from his pocket that Merlin could not see. He heard a flicking sound of paper. Then it dawned on Merlin. Cards. Geraint had removed a deck of cards. The pit of Merlin's stomach convulsed. This idea was a humiliation in the making. Geraint was going to make a fool of himself. The horror compelled Merlin to lean forward to closer watch. Then he retreated, unwilling to witness his friend fail in front of a man who would mock him and judge him diminished. Merlin became trapped in conflicting desires; he was unable to watch and unable to turn away.

"You pick a card. If I guess right, I go. I'm wrong, you go."

After all that work to have Arthur relinquish the work, Geraint opened up the most perfect way for Arthur to get his own way. Merlin cringed and felt an anger well. Arthur would be sure to win. Reflexively, Merlin readied himself to fix the game. This would not be. Then he stopped himself. Send Geraint? Send Arthur? They were both his friends. How could he pick? Destiny. It was everything. He readied himself again. All at once "a life for a life" took on deeper meaning. This was war. One of them had to go to save the army; to save Camelot. Merlin lowered his hand. This would play out as fate would have it; there would be no magic.

Geraint shuffled and dropped a card. Arthur stooped to pick it up.

"This is ridiculous. You can't even shuffle."

"Then what harm is it? You will win."

"Very well." Arthur agreed impatient to conclude the moment.

Merlin looked on and then away. This was unwatchable. He turned his back and heard the laboured shuffling. There was a flicking, then the parsing and catching of almost fallen cards. In his minds eye, he could see Geraint – hands awkwardly handling – unable to manipulate them with any finesse.

"Pick a card. Any card."

Merlin could hear the slip of one card removed from the back. There was a long silence. Night sounds filled the air. Merlin dared not look. Who would stay? Who would go? What had happened? He still could not look.

"Well? I haven't got all night."

"Jack … of … clubs." Geraint had the slightest rise in his voice at the end as if he were not sure.

Neither man spoke. Merlin could stand it no longer and he turned and lifted his gaze, his eyes instinctively going first to Arthur.

Arthur's face was dark. He was decidedly displeased. Geraint leaned and tipped over the edge of the card to check. A wisp of a smile passed over his lips and then faded.

Arthur scowled and threw the Jack to the ground. "This is a trick."

Geraint retrieved the card and put the assembly back in his pocket. "Your majesty agreed to the terms. Are you reneging?"

"No. This was a trick."

"I've won."

"You cheated."

"Did you not pick out the card yourself?" Geraint's elation started to reveal itself. "At random?"

"Yes." Arthur frowned. He was convinced of the trickery but could not fathom how it was done.

Merlin did not understand either. It wasn't quite the trick he had taught Geraint. It had morphed into something different. Something that Geraint could win. Whatever success, it seemed a perilously great risk to take. Geraint's card sense was still crude and unstudied. The outcome had clearly not been certain, nor even probable. Geraint appeared surprised. How had this happened?

Sir Keith and the other knights hovered at the fringe, looking on and not quite understanding the action between the two leaders. Sir Keith leaned over and whispered to the others.

"I will leave the Second Platoon in your care, your majesty. I will veer off to the west and follow the border. We shall meet again. At the forks of the Renaud Valley. Whoever arrives first waits for the other."


	16. Chapter 16

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

Author's note: "Solus et Fidelis" … "alone and faithful"

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Chapter 16

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Geraint knew it prudent to make haste out of camp before Arthur re-established his bearings as First Knight and changed his mind. Leaving without ceremony, she had time enough only to take a small bundle assembled hastily by Merlin. At the very last moment, he pressed a final item into Geraint's hand.

"Rabbit's foot." Merlin nodded with encouragement to take the gift. "For luck. Hasn't failed me yet."

With that, she had disappeared from camp into the night. The clouds had cleared and the waxing moon was rising. Geraint was quite adept at using the soft light to navigate. She did so freely and moved through the forest with ease. Before taking the extreme north west bearing dictated by the map, she decided to first circle the outside of the camp perimeter. A view of the immediate location seemed the most prudent place to start scouting. They had not – to her knowledge – done any covert observations of their own camp. Geraint did not have anything in particular in mind when she set out. If Crossbow were following the platoon, it might be possible to discover some insight useful to their side.

Geraint tread noiselessly. The ground was still yielding and soft from all the rains. As she moved, her woollen cape disturbed leaves, tipping their precarious balance and causing suddenly streams of water as fronds and branches rid themselves of rain. She walked on, surrounded by moisture and muted dripping. The air was damp and full of the fragrant smells of earth and plants that permeated the misty forest.

Geraint had completed almost the entire circumference when she came across a sapling broken off in the middle. She touched the bark, moving her fingertips up and down the thin trunk. No teeth marks. A few feet ahead, she noticed a small patch of fern squashed and ground into the mud. The heel mark was fresh and sunk deeply into the loam. She squatted and connected the two points, giving her a line of travel. Choosing a direction, she followed the path away from their camp. It was easy to follow; evidence of recent activity was obvious. The track was either made in haste or Crossbow was not stealthy by nature or saw no reason to obscure movement. Coming across a particularly intense patch of torn branches and trodden plant life, Geraint stopped. She put her hands to her hips and surveyed the area. Off into the bushes, she noticed an unnaturally dark shadow. She removed her sword, making a shicking metallic echo. She approached with weapon drawn. Then she gave the darkness a nudge with the tip and prodded the bundle. It rolled forward and partially unfurled.

She knelt and unwrapped a bundle of arrows – crossbow arrows. There were an even dozen. She inspected the cloth closely. No crests, initials or other identifiers on the fabric, nor on the arrows themselves. Geraint picked one up and inspected it. The tip was finely pointed - razor edged – that left a spot of blood on her finger where she tested for sharpness. She held it at eye level and peered down the shaft. The fletchings were precisely set and highly symmetric. They were arrows of the highest quality. Of the soldiers who had been killed, she had seen two of the arrows; these were similar.

She gazed towards the camp, then turned, orienting it behind her. Looking up through a break in the canopy of leaves, she sighted the North Star to confirm her bearings. Odd, Geraint thought. The enemy was now to her right, not straight ahead as she would have expected if Crossbow were part of the retreating army.

She viewed the arrows at her feet and considered the discovery. There was insufficient information to warrant a return to camp. Without identifiers, what did this tell them that they did not already know? That Crossbow attacked at the perimeter? Such was already clear. Mildly dissatisfied that her discovery yielded no further information, she stooped and picked up one of the arrows. She lay it across the palms of her two hands for a final study. Finding nothing further, she snapped it in two. Then she picked up a second and third until she had every arrow broken. Once she had destroyed them all, she lay out the arrows evenly, re-matching the broken shafts, wrapped up the bundle and tucked it back into its hiding place. With luck, it would provide relief to Arthur and his men for at least a day and give Crossbow a few moments of unease.

From there, she began her journey in earnest – settling into a steady travelling rhythm. She was headed north west and to higher ground to survey the ridge. Soon, she would be able to scout out both lay of the land and the enemy territory and set about establishing the second stage of her expedition. By dawn, she had covered a goodly sum of miles and selected an appropriately sheltered spot at the edge of a small wooded area, just in the mouth of a cave to lie down and sleep. Pulling out the small bundle Merlin had given her, she looked through the contents – quickly eating the collection of nuts and berries. It was enough to keep the gnawing hunger at bay but she knew it would not last long. The want of food would continue to be her constant companion and be the insistent craving that would awaken her in a few hours.

The sun was rising but she had a secluded spot where she could hide her eyes in shadow. She settled her shoulders into her cloak and put her head down, believing sleep would come easy. After several minutes, she started to breathe deeply, letting her body relax and compelling her mind to follow. Lightening images flickered before her eyes; some appeared as a single flash, others came across in a series of connected moments. She shifted to find another position more conducive to sleep. Voices rose in her head. Men from her platoon. Merlin. Arthur. More images passed before her eyes. She turned over onto her side and tucked a hand under her head for a pillow. Arthur's face emerged from the crowd and persisted. Blue eyes pierced her with an angry scowl. Pressing her lids tightly, she tried to rid herself of his apparition. He stared, unblinking and fierce. His body took shape. He peered down on her and crossed his arms; defiant and regal.

Geraint tried to block out her restless conscience. Threatening to slit the throat of the Crown Prince was mutiny, treason, insubordination. She knew she was lucky to have had escaped consequence as she did. No matter how sincere Uther had been – this had not been what the King had in mind when he insisted that Arthur was a soldier, not his son.

For her part, she had not expected that Arthur's scornful words would have affected her so deeply. His complete and utter dismissal of her had made her angry; more angry than she had been for some time. This had not been an easy relationship. She had overlooked much of Arthur's royal style of entitlement and had often swallowed words that threatened to be heard. He had given her no credit for any of her efforts. Her reliance on Uther's calming advice was frequent – she was to overlook personality. Do what is right.

Yet Geraint had – for lack of more precise words – taken his taunting evaluation of her personally. He had dismissed all that she was based on her appearance. Even now, she felt another flame of anger rise. While she was less than most men, for her gender and for a soldier, she was neither weak nor scrawny. She had lived by her own wits, worked hard, and risen through the ranks. Her station in life – leader of the Second Platoon of Camelot – was proof of that. Geraint knew she had given Arthur the same willing loyalty that she had pledged to his father; her King – without question, without hesitation. She balled her fists – she did not have the benefit of status and money and a father who was King of the Realm. She had not the rights of title to do and say as she pleased without consequence. She realized he did not know her secret. And yet – she still had not deserved that treatment – not as leader of the Second Platoon.

She closed her eyes and saw Arthur standing there – towering over her, staring down his nose at her, doing everything he could to intimidate and diminish her. Then those words – he had chosen them deliberately – using specific references to their first battle together where Arthur had used his brute strength to most obviously and decidedly save her life. She did not possess the sheer physical power he had to cut down a soldier. She had to rely on finesse. In that moment, she had been caught off guard and there was no finesse capable of winning the oncoming power of a six foot male wielding a sword in a double handed axe-swing. Arthur had saved her life; as she did his minutes later. But now Arthur's words had dismissed her contribution, forgetting his survival as she dispatched an attacker of his.

Geraint closed her eyes again and breathed deeply. Uther had warned her about this. His paraphrased advice echoed in her ears – you are equals. Treat him as a soldier. He is not a prince.

And so – when Arthur had hit her spot of vulnerability so squarely and so deeply – she reacted as much with military reflex as she had in personal anger. Consequences be damned. Arthur Pendragon deserved a lesson; a reminder that he too had his weaknesses. He would also do well to remind himself that they were – if not friends – then at least comrades who fought for the same side. The knife was in her hand and to his jowl before he had even blinked. He had convulsed in surprise and, as she pushed the knife up – he rose up on his toes. It was only when thunderclouds threatened and the blue eyes darkened to black that she remembered he was Arthur, Crown Prince and First Knight, and – most importantly - Son of Uther.

She wondered what Uther would have thought had he witnessed it. He might have watched the exchange in silence, fully able to anticipate the outcome as the exchange escalated. Because no harm had come to his son but minor starling and a bruised ego, she believed he might have been amused to see Arthur so efficiently and completely neutralized. She imagined Uther watching on – arms half crossed with an elbow supported by a wrist, eyes crinkled at the edges and hiding a sly smile behind a gloved hand; his index finger pressing down on his lip to keep from laughing out loud.

Geraint could hear his voice – well after the fact – as a mentor would after an important lesson. The chastisement would have been tender, but firm with an expectation of improvement. "Geraint. Anger disrupts equilibrium, clouds judgement, and forces errors. You let your temper get the best of you. I might expect that from Arthur. Not from you."

"Yes, my liege." She would have felt his disappointment keenly – as a sharp knife cutting at her insides. If they had been alone, he might have offered an example from his own experience to illustrate how anger led to an unfortunate decision of his own. Perhaps his temper had prompted him to hasty and thoughtless pronouncements that he later regretted.

Geraint pushed the echo of Uther's voice from her mind. That rich, languid baritone too often resided there. He was the secret counsel of her imagination; the one that provided solace and reassurance when she was alone.

She rolled onto her opposite hip and felt immediate discomfort. Then she removed the deck of cards from beneath her tunic. If her anger at Arthur had been a tactical error, she had used his reaction to its utmost advantage. Her reaction had shaken him – perhaps because she was not a genuine enemy and her response had been so unexpected that it set him on his heels. With him off-balance, she had been able to get him to agree to the cards.

Ah, the cards. She removed the cards from her pocket and fondled the deck and began putting the cards in order. Face up and face down, they had become mixed up in her pocket. Card after card, she rearranged them until they were as when she started. She smiled to herself.

Arthur's argument to be the forward scout was not unexpected. Yet if he remained with his army, his life would be more protected that if alone. At all costs, she would protect what Uther held most dear – his son. Honour and nobility were not in question – Arthur lack neither courage nor duty. So how to wrest from those hands the right to expose one's self to extreme danger? She could not imagine the moment when Uther was told his son was wounded or - at the extreme - dead. She knew losing Arthur would shatter him – it would tear out his heart and leave him soulless. If anything happened to his son, Uther would exist the rest of his days as dead among the living. Geraint had pledged allegiance to her King, her monarch and leader; and to Uther the man, a father and her mentor. She would see his son live even if it meant sacrificing her own life.

She knew from his expression that Arthur doubted the outcome. That it had been a trick was clear. How it was done impossible for Arthur to determine. She had been careful to set it up. If he had had any inclination that she would be successful, he would have not agreed to it. And the outcome? He had been thwarted by his own under-estimation of her. That lack of insight annoyed him almost as much as being denied from his desire to lead.

And it equally delighted Geraint.


	17. Chapter 17

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

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Chapter 17

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Arthur opened his eyes and rolled to the side with a long sigh.

Outside his tent, sunlight was breathing blue into the blackness, chasing away moon and stars. Splinters of yellow and orange were beginning to form, slashing at the few clouds that remained in the sky. Morning birds chirped and flew about – their wings making soft fluttering echoes in the trees. Servants and early risers followed nature's lead and had begun to rise. Arthur listened to hands splashing in cold water for rapid baths, deep restorative yawns and informal greetings of the day. After a while there were utensils scraping the breakfast bowls of knights. As he lay there, he heard voices joining in an accumulating growth of conversation and volume as others awoke and began the day. Every now and again, he could hear Merlin's quiet greetings and exchanges as he prepared food at a pace roughly approximating demand.

Arthur closed his eyes again and curled into his coverlet and grieved the loss of several hours' sleep. He knew from experience that the first few minutes of the day were the hardest – then habit and responsibility and adrenaline would take over and he would forget the night had ever been until the day passed into the gloaming. It was then that the thoughts that had kept him awake would reappear, quickly conjured from a restless mind. Darkness removed all distractions and left one to one's own phantoms and memories.

Arthur had slept fitfully and for once it was not because of Merlin's cooking. So much had happened in the last few hours that he had required the uninterrupted time to process it. He needed to turn details over in his mind and see things from all angles – like a prism deconstructing light into its component colours. After several failed attempts at slumber, he decided that if he had to use sleep time to think, so be it. He had sat up, circled his knees with his arms and let wakefulness take hold. It occurred to him that those times – when it had been well past midnight - when he caught his father patrolling the castle halls in unhurried and evenly metered steps, or sitting at his desk with his chin propped up by his gloved fist pondering an array of parchment fanned out before him or occupying the window chair of the uninhabited library and gazing unblinking out into darkness, – that his father might have been doing he had done last night – driven awake by the burden of relentless thinking.

_How_ had he not noticed the river?

Arthur felt another lurch in the pit of his stomach as he again asked himself the obvious question. He knew very well how to travel in close consultation with the map for bearings; such renderings were constant companions on the battlefield. As all good soldiers could – he was able to easily read ahead and retain the expectation of significant milestones. The river should have appeared at midday; where the hills morphed into valley.

Arthur recalled having had his usual forward position for most of the day. What had happened? Just as they reached the valley Sir Keith's horse had been spooked, nearly throwing him and causing a good measure of activity. Arthur had gone back into the ranks to ensure all was well. The horse had taken some time to settle and the minor rampage scattered and distracted all of them. Then came a thunderstorm of such force that visibility had been greatly reduced. It had been so easy in all the chaos of movement and noise and howling winds and rain – Arthur reflected trying to rationalize events – for him to lose focus.

And yet. Arthur stopped himself and felt his stomach take another twist.

Geraint had travelled that very same territory – also in the rain. Furthermore, he had done the trek in the dark. Despite those disadvantages, Geraint had been astute enough to notice the river. Or that one should have existed and did not. Arthur sensed his cheeks burn hot. He had been caught out – embarrassed at his error. He knew there was no excuse for his mistake.

The maps were indeed wrong. Once he and Geraint had begun the comparison, Arthur realized they were significantly at odds with the terrain in key places. He knew – too – that it was his responsibility as First Knight to ensure the safe keeping of his troops and be the one to scout out enemy territory. He also knew he needed to atone for his error. Arthur had not expected resistance and – already frustrated – he found it momentarily satisfying to vent his spleen on one he viewed weak and inferior. That Geraint had retaliated with a dagger to his throat had surprised him utterly. Those eyes had flashed with such fierceness that Arthur knew that it was only restraint that had kept Arthur alive. The knife blade could have easily filleted his throat. Yet Arthur acknowledged that he himself had been compelled to start the fight - as if he could vicariously express his own anger through the reaction of another. It was the same, straightforward exchange of provocation and reaction he shared with his father.

Despite the prick of blood under his chin, Arthur had reluctantly admitted to himself that Geraint was beginning to prove his worth. It was this understanding that helped him find tolerance for Geraint's angry outburst. Had his father been in Arthur's place, Arthur was certain Geraint's attack would have failed and he would have been slain on the spot – dispatched without hesitation. Then again, Arthur thought - his father would not have missed the river. Nor would his father have needlessly and selfishly incited his best advisor to such anger at a time when unity was most critical. His father was capable of a self-contained and natural strategy in the very moment of action. Even the most subtle courses of action were clearly obvious to him. His father was never without options; never without choices nor the personal centredness to maintain a calm deliberateness to his choices; to pick with detachment, not passion; to act, not react. Critical moments seemed to unfold at a slower pace for his father – it was as if he commanded time itself – where he could retreat into calmness and both participate in discussions and view them objectively at the same time. It was these types of possibilities that Arthur still could develop only in retrospect; too often he felt himself locked into a response and had to manoeuvre his way out of situations he could have – should have – avoided at the outset.

The camp was now alive with men and horses; growing noise and activity. He could not hold off any further. Arthur had to get up.

Once Arthur emerged from the tent, he stood hands on hips and surveyed the day. He looked across the camp and spotted Merlin who waved a muted greeting and held up a bowl in offering. Ah. Breakfast. Hunger pressed against his ribs and the smell of food gave the sensation strength. A bowl of porridge would do for a start. He took three steps forward and was halted.

"Sire?" Sir Ellis intercepted him. The knight appeared concerned and checked both ways to see who was observing him before leaning towards Arthur. "Might I have a word?"

Arthur could smell the food and saliva welled around his molars. "Yes, Sir Ellis? What is it?"

"I cannot help but notice that we have taken on the Second Platoon and Geraint Wyndym has left camp. Is everything alright?"

Arthur considered the question. He hesitated to disclose any more than necessary. Geraint and Arthur had had an unspoken understanding about the maps. They both knew the error had come from within Camelot. It had served someone's purpose that both leaders should have identically incorrect maps. Who and why was currently beyond them. Arthur took on a cavalier tone and smiled widely. With a strong clap to Sir Ellis' shoulder, he directed him forward with a push and Arthur reassured him. "Everything is perfectly fine. Geraint has gone in search of some extra provisions at the next village. We will meet up with him shortly."

"Ah," Sir Ellis mirrored the grin. "Let's hope he comes upon good stores for us." With that, he moved aside.

Arthur once again looked up. Merlin had given away the first bowl and, seeing Arthur's approach, reached out for another bowl and began filling it. A light wisp of smoke curled up from the fire and Arthur detected the sudden blissful aroma of bacon. He stomach growled audibly as he made an advance of several more steps.

"My lord?" The man moved into Arthur's path as an intercept.

"Yes, Kyle?"

"I will have your horse ready shortly. There are some minor tack repairs done and I've had to adjust the stirrups."

"Fine. Just make sure that they are well buckled. I do not want to lose footing like I did yesterday. I will not falter if we engage the enemy."

"Yes. Of course, my lord. I'll see to it right away." Kyle bowed and released Arthur from captivity.

At that, Arthur gained another seven steps before another voice stopped him.

"Sire?"

He shut his eyes and momentarily willed the interruption to eternal damnation. Pushing down his initial sharp reaction, he forced his voice into calm and transferred his frustration into his balled fists.

"Yes, Sir Frederick?" He kept inching forward, coaxing along his captor to talk and walk at the same time.

"I am very sorry to disturb you, sire. I was not sure if I should or not and it could have been an error, you understand. And I see you've not had breakfast yet and I do apologize for that. The bacon is exceptional."

"Sir Frederick. What is it?"

"Well. You see, sire …I wasn't sure if … "

"Get to the point."

"I've just done a check of our munitions. We seem to be missing some of the weaponry."

"Oh?" Arthur stopped and gave the knight his undivided attention. "Tell me more."

"Counts are off by two dozen."

"That does not seem much." His eyes lifted to catch a motion in the distance. Arthur spotted Merlin again. He held up the second bowl. This time, he added the pantomime of eating it with a spoon. Merlin waited without reward of an acknowledgement. As a further enticement, he circled his stomach with an open palm. Another whiff of bacon filled Arthur's lungs.

"No, sire." Sir Frederick bit his finger, agreeing in voice but not in attitude. "It's just … well … I wasn't going to say …"

"What is it?"

"The counts are off with the arrows. Crossbow arrows."

A cold breeze blew into Arthur's face. He kept his expression blank, refusing to take any meaning from the observation. Crossbows? The implications were immediate and clear – even to Sir Frederick. Had they been stolen? From within or without? When? Maybe the mistake was at the initial counting before they set out from Camelot. Rumour, suspicion and panic were not conducive to a successful campaign. Arthur exhaled slowly and chose his words.

"It may well have been there was a miscount before we set out."

"Yes, my lord." Sir Frederick did not sound convinced. "Quite possible."

"Thank you, Sir Frederick." Arthur said and then pulled the knight back for a final instruction. "Do not share this information with anyone. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord." He nodded.

Arthur circled the man's shoulders with his arm then withdrew slightly to place his hand at the base of Sir Frederick's neck. He squeezed hard, his index and thumb digging deep into flesh. "Let me be perfectly clear. Not with _anyone_."

"Yes. I understand, my lord. It was a minor oversight in the counts. Mistakes of all kinds can happen."

"Yes. Yes, they can."

Arthur glanced once more in Merlin's direction. He was passing the second bowl to another knight, taking care to put an extra dollop into the bowl. Arthur's stomach rattled his ribs for attention and he resumed his quest for food.

Arthur kept walking as Sir Ellis returned and fell into step.

"Not now."

"But your majesty … I just want to …"

"It will have to wait."

"But…"

Athur turned abruptly. "Was I not clear?" The venom stopped Sir Ellis in his tracks. "I said it will have to wait. Do you understand?"

"Yes. Yes. I am sorry, your majesty." And with that, Arthur spanned the final few yards to Merlin where he stood and waited for the final scrapes of the pot to get a bowl of lukewarm porridge.

"Sleep well?" Merlin asked as Arthur put a spoonful into his mouth. His servant lifted the final two strips of bacon from the pan and arranged them on a plate, then poured an unidentifiable but hot liquid into a mug.

"Fantastic." Arthur gulped down a swallow. "The sleep of angels."

"Oh." Merlin sounded sheepish – as if he had expected an admission of an unsettled night. "I slept poorly. Kept thinking about Geraint."

"He is a good soldier. He will be fine." Arthur continued to eat standing up. He bit off an end of bacon and washed it down with a mouthful of hot. His breakfast was over quickly and he sped up to keep pace with the troops who where now striking camp.

Despite the sudden flurry of activity, getting underway seemed to take an exaggerated amount of time. Arthur did what he could to compel the men to hurry but it was difficult. Activity was not the same as progress. With Geraint gone, Arthur had inherited a complete second platoon of soldiers. His attention was divided and getting the two platoons coordinated proved arduous. Each group had differing styles and strengths and – where there was weakness – Arthur was the final arbiter and provider of skills and solutions to all. Suddenly Arthur found himself with twice of everything. Twice as many horses and weapons to move and store. Twice as many men. Twice as many questions, options and decisions. He felt himself begin to drown in the overwhelming minutiae of the troops and became frustrated at having to make decisions that should have been made by others.

"Merlin." Arthur had mounted to move more easily from place to place. He had swung his horse around to find his servant. Merlin was on foot and Arthur fell into step along side him. "Who is Geraint's second? William, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's right." Merlin looked up at him, his arms with bundle of blankets.

"Which one is he?"

Merlin scanned the campsite and studied as the two platoons threaded in and around each other in a strange but almost orderly chaos.

"The tall one. Over there. Not him." Merlin seemed to anticipate Arthur's gaze. "The red head."

"Tell him I want to see him. He will get a temporary field promotion. I need him to take on the Second Platoon's leadership."

With that – the day seemed to settle in to something approximating success. The two platoons began forward movement. Apart from a few moments of disquiet and Sir Keith's horse going on another rampage, all proceeded well.

The good weather continued and the warm sunny air was restorative. Everything including moods seemed to dry out. Arthur, too, had felt his temperament improve as the day wore on. By the late afternoon, when they had decided on a location for camp their path veered right and Arthur watched the valley open up before him. Well beyond were mountains. The sun was warm and struck the grasses until they almost glowed with a golden yellow hue. There was a breeze that smelled of clover and Arthur felt his horse stir at the perfection of the view. The horse wanted to run. So did Arthur. With a few words to William and Merlin and Sir Frederick who had rode close by, he excused himself. He would have these few moments alone where he could ride and be free.

"I will meet you up ahead, where the forest begins. I won't be long."

And with that, Arthur turned his horse out into the meadow and rode. He started out – slowly at first but the horse realizing it had its head increased pace quickly. Soon Arthur was speeding ahead – he view framed only by blue sky, fields and his horse. He galloped along, wind hard through his hair and on his cheeks; his fists wrapped with the leather reins and his torso moving to the same rhythm as the horse. Arthur felt the tops of his cheekbones burn with the sun and he raced letting the energy of pounding of hooves radiate up through his knees and hips, the power of speed and agility melding with his own until they were a single animal – raw – free – omnipotent. He let the horse run – hooves hardly heard over the sound of wind in his ears. For a few minutes, he had no thoughts but speed and energy and sun.

Then Arthur knew he had to turn back and pulled the animal into a long wide circle back towards the rendezvous point. As they approached, they slowed to a canter and the horse snuffled and bounced its head. Arthur neared a clutch of his soldiers who had waited for him while the rest had proceeded to set up camp.

It sounded without warning. Arthur heard a hiss in the air. At the last second, he turned and saw an arrow coming straight for him. Throwing himself backwards, he lost balance and flailed awkwardly to keep himself seated to avoid the projectile. It was an awkward deflection but the arrow travelled down his arm and landed like a javelin straight into the top of his wrist guard. His forearm had been split open lengthwise and began to bleed badly. Arthur dismounted and cradled his one arm with the other.

"Are you alright?" Merlin seemed to appear from nowhere. It was a habit Arthur had begun to notice – as if Merlin was congenitally attracted to a certain kind of menace and could not help but insert himself in the very middle of it. This time, Merlin approached from the side, not seeing what had happened at first. "Have you been hur - ? " he started and then Arthur turned. His eyes widened. "Ohhh …" Merlin's voice had trailed off as he noticed the arrow – first lightening into a faint whisper then his mouth simply forming a soundless oh shape.

It was funny, Arthur thought. He had not felt any pain until he had looked at his arm and began to understand that he had just been hit. At first, he had thought it was a nothing but a glancing blow but then he looked closer and saw the thick bloody slice that opened up his arm and the arrow that protruded from the top of his metal cuff. Then it dawned on him that he had been lucky. Had the arrow been a clear shot – Arthur would have been delivered a significant wound – perhaps a mortal one. He shook off the idea by focussing on the throbbing gash.

"That hurt?" Merlin tugged the arrow gingerly; creating spasms of pain that ran up and down Arthur's arm through that sensitive hollow in the back of his elbow. Arthur gritted his teeth and sucked in a breath with a noisy intake of air.

"Of course it _hurts_, Merlin." He peered up with heavy lids, "I've an arrow in my arm. Get on with it." Merlin extracted the arrow with care, cleaned the wound with a stinging concoction that numbed him, then began stitching closed the skin. Merlin ended by carefully bandaging the wound.

Arthur inspected the work closely, then clenched his hand around the injury to test for a pain threshold. He made a fist and wound his wrist in a tight circle. His arm ached and was sore but it was not prohibitively damaged and he retained good range of motion.

"Gaius would be proud." He said as an after thought.

"You really think so?" Merlin beamed. "He doesn't normally think I …"

"Where is Sir Keith?" Arthur said, getting up and having moved on from the moment, satisfied that his wound would not be an impediment. "I need to talk to him. He needs to get his horse under control. That's the second time in days that he's let loose. I will not have it happen again. We need to stay focused and not get lost in distractions that will cost us lives."


	18. Chapter 18

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

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Chapter 18

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It was well past midnight.

His chamber was a hollow of darkness. The candles at his desk were burned far beyond half height and still Uther continued to study all that he had laid in front of him – piece by piece, each in its turn - correspondence, maps, legal missives, his own cryptic notes. He had been warned of a traitor. The note had been anonymous – meaning it came from someone close at hand too afraid of exposure. The message itself Uther had deemed sincere since the information had confirmed his growing sensation that there was something amiss that he could not discern by direct observation. Thus, he adopted a single-minded dedication to uncover the source. It had been a frustrating pursuit. It was as if he needed to stop looking straight on and view it – like stars at night – from the periphery. He believed there were clues buried in the material spread out before him. But where? Where in all this confounded paper was his answer?

Uther frowned, closing his eyes and felt his lids burn with fatigue. Seven consecutive days he had been at this – night after night, day after day. Stretching his neck back and rolling his head from side to side, he eased the knots in his shoulders. Relief was fleeting. He knew he would need sleep for relaxation to be permanent. Time enough for that later … after he had satisfied his need to know the answer. He pushed open his eyes and refocused his attention, weeding through the closest pile for a letter he had re-read several times previously, unreasonably hoping that the content had changed since he last viewed it. Taking in the first few lines, he filled in the rest without looking. He knew the text by heart. It still contained nothing of value. Soured, Uther tossed the letter back to the top of the stack and sat back, settling an elbow on each arm of the chair.

He had been through all this before. When he wasn't here looking at the documents themselves, he was present at court but absent in mind – preoccupied with conjuring up images of maps and verbatim text. Who could be the conspirator in his midst? Uther had long since become accustomed to threats to his rule. It had been thus since almost the moment he had become king and it was part of the very nature of having power. If one had enough of it – and all the benefits and luxuries that went along with it - others appeared who were willing to do anything to usurp it. Constant vigilance was the price to pay for stability and a kingdom at peace.

Uther had long since learned to be a wary and watchful man. He was astute and had had too many excellent opportunities to navigate through threats for him to miss any more than only the most cunning of plots. Over time, he had shifted from defence to one of prevention since open conflict was disruptive and costly to him and his kingdom. Often, it was a simple matter of giving a man enough rope to hang himself. Men interested in domination were often impatient and fell easily into the traps set where power was seen for the taking. It never ceased to amaze Uther how stupid men could be; how transparent and desperate they could become at the fleeting promise of acquiring domination over all. Had they not contemplated that he would have a structure in place to defend himself - a king's silent network where loyal subjects exchanged information and early warnings? Had they considered him – even those who had known him a long time – with such a shallow and fragile base of power that a single threat could topple him? When had he ever given anyone the impression he was anything less than an intelligent, resourceful soldier? Uther admitted, however, on rare occasion there appeared a patient man who harboured a secret grudge and was bent on anarchy. These were the most dangerous threats because these men did not assume the needless pressure of time that would most often force missteps. Uther knew that, from time to time, his own actions manufactured circumstances that created such men. It too was part of the price of imperial rule.

Uther had been single-minded in his quest to discover who had betrayed him. With the full of his army deployed to far reaches and only a handful of guardsmen left to defend the castle, it was imperative that Uther discover the threat and neutralize it quickly. He knew Camelot had become vulnerable and largely unprotected. That fact gave him the all-consuming drive to uncover who had betrayed him. He would not rest until he had this resolved. Everything was at stake - his reign, his kingdom.

Earlier that day, he had stood before seven men – specifically selected by Uther because they had all failed – after due consideration of several nights' sleepless work - to be eliminated from his suspicion. He had gathered them together under the pretext of an ad hoc war council where he revealed he was seeking their special advice. Uther had assembled a collection of maps, letters and history of the conflict. He stood on one side of the table – they on the other. A solitary secret lived in his court and it was Uther's aim to have one of them reveal it to him. He began by asking a simple question and invited them all to debate it while he stood back and observed. It was not the question he wanted answered; it was his desire to watch them – to study their nuances, their gestures and eye contact; and identify where there were partnerships, and disagreements. What was the basis for their arguments? Was it weak? Strong? Uther knew one of them was a traitor. This – he was hopeful - would flush out which one.

He had known these seven men for varied lengths of time but each long enough that he had before now invited them into his inner circle as trusted advisors. Some he had known from the battlefield where he had fought with them side by side. One he had known since birth. Some of these men had sons in the war. How could he not trust these men? Yet. He did not.

Uther had been carefully watching them, listening for clues in the way they answered his questions. Hoping to detect a hidden intention, Uther had found none and in a moment of unguarded frustration unexpectedly felt the want of Geraint's council. Though why he should trust Geraint above others who had given him decades of service was a curiosity to Uther once he realized this unanticipated choice. Perhaps Geraint had an objective outside view that he otherwise lacked. Or perhaps Geraint's station was such that he had little to gain or lose by the discussion or ultimate outcome. Geraint stood for all Uther believed in: truth, respect and loyalty. Of all men, Uther believed Geraint incapable of betrayal. He had looked into Geraint's eyes and seen unflinching fidelity, earnestness in service, and unwavering devotion. Geraint was not part of the power base at court where men's prevailing position in the Kingdom rose or fell based on them having selected the right allies and enemies. Lest there be any doubt; traitors would be executed. So would collaborators and any accomplices. His kingdom would be purged of this rebellion and their beheaded corpses on display as a lesson to others. Defiance of the King had mortal consequences.

Uther had started out with seven men and, by the end of the war counsel - had eliminated four. That left three men remaining – all of whom had sons fighting with Arthur. Sir Hugh, father of Sir Keith. Sir Lennox, father of Sir Ellis. Sir Edward, father of Sir Frederick. They covered a wide range of interests – geography, finance, and military warfare. Each was an area upon which a king could fall and a court could collapse. Was it just one or did they collude and combine their efforts?

Uther leaned his head back in his chair and sighed, staving off fatigue using nothing but sustained willpower and a change of focus.

He switched back to Geraint; thought of him yet again and with a pang of deep regret, rued once more the absence of this man. Would that Uther could have even a few minutes of discourse with Geraint. He knew such a conversation would be fruitful and yield the result he craved. With Geraint close at hand, Uther was certain of victory. Had Geraint remained in Camelot, Uther would have insisted he be present for his fabricated war council. Uther would have given him no indication why he was there; simply order him to say nothing and observe. The command itself would have been enough for Geraint to know his King had an ulterior objective and would patiently do as commanded; ever faithful that intent would eventually be revealed.

Afterwards, Uther would have invited Geraint to his private chambers. There they would sit as they often sat – opposite each other in orientation and perspective but never in conflict or discord. They would be together without artifice and the pairing would complete Uther in a manner that he had never properly understood. He would need only to ask only what had transpired at court and then Uther would wait – perhaps several moments – while Geraint ordered his thoughts. Then he would begin and Uther would challenge his ideas and take exception to conclusions and dispute observations – forcing Geraint to counter and defend and match him point for point - until at last they could reach a common understanding and Uther achieved a satisfied release from the tension of unshared burdens. Uther thrived in this cerebral battleground where few men could withstand him, let alone compete to any degree. At the end, Uther would nod, having absorbed all of Geraint's observations and gleaned new ideas from Geraint's fresh perspective. Deftly, he folded it into his own, newly expanded world view. Uther felt another pang of longing. He missed having – not an equal – never an equal – but a resource of such uncommon competence that he had a momentary impulse to recall him back to Camelot. Uther shook his head, answering himself mutely with denial. Geraint served the King best where he was; along side his son on the battlefield. At the thought of them both, Uther sent out a private wish for both men to be ever protected from all harm.

Uther shifted forward and the chair creaked in the silent deadness. He searched for a letter that he found well into the middle of the pile. He sat back and took the letter with him, then re-read the missive once again and – once again – he gleaned nothing further. He tossed the parchment to his desk and it floated with unsatisfactory grace to the desk, belying the fit of temper with which Uther had delivered it.

Geraint had a particular gift for both memory of obscure details and for making connections among such buried information. These connections more often than not put the situation in a new light – some times it was subtle, periodically it was radical. Uther had a desperate want of such insight. He felt as if he were looking at a maze of dots and was in need of a map to make sense of it all. Geraint – he was certain – would have been able to supply such perspective.

Uther permitted his lids to fall closed again and felt a momentary bliss at the rest. This time, he kept his eyes shut and conjured up the image of Geraint. Uther watched him as he might have been – upon Uther's invitation – hastening forward to review the documents. He would be particular – pulling some forward and setting others aside – scissoring with his index and middle finger the edge of a particularly relevant document and sorting it into one or two temporary categories known only to his obscure logic. Geraint would repeat the action with each document – weeding through information – here and there picking at a salient point – perhaps asking Uther a question of clarification. It would be straight to the heart of the matter and reveal that he had an absolute and rigorous understanding of the situation. The logic of his choices would reveal themselves and ranged from relevant to profound. Geraint's fingers would spider over maps, stopping here and there, perhaps making a brief tapping on top of a particular feature worth remembering. Uther would have felt invigorated; as one did when working with a man of talent where the camaraderie came as a result of each being more than the sum of the two and feeding off that energy. Together, they would have revealed the mystery.

Geraint would then stand up – as the phantom did before him now - and absently turn the small leather binding he had for his two middle fingers. A nervous habit he so often had when he was thinking. Uther had the sensation that he should be checking something. Maps. Geraint mouthed the word. What maps? Old? New? Uther had dozens to chose from here; hundreds more in the archives.

"Yes, Geraint? Tell me." Fatigue had robbed him of strength and awareness. Uther was not sure if he uttered the words or not. He tried again. "What is it?"

Geraint paused in that way he had – taking care to frame commentary for the best possible outcome.

"My lord?"

Geraint's voice was unexpectedly hushed. It sounded oddly feminine. Delicate. The whisper of words was designed to allure; as if Geraint were tempting Uther. The tender question renewed feelings of longing and passion that Uther had banished from his thoughts. The words caressed him like a tantalizing, open mouthed kiss. The forbidden burned Uther's mind, resurrecting dormant impulses.

Uther stared into Geraint's clear eyes; saw them glisten in the candlelight and brighten in reciprocal awakening. Uther bit the inside of his lower lip - viciously hard - so he might put his concentration elsewhere and be able to fight the urge to give life to his illicit cravings. His cheeks burned with shame and desire. This cannot be and yet he was enveloped in an unrelenting distraction to have what was not allowed. Uther wanted to dominate with unrestrained force; to collapse upon him so completely that they merged into one single outpouring of passion. Uther felt his strength drain from his elbows. Weakness prevented him from anything more than a clumsy reaching out of his arm to invite him forward, closer, so he could be within reach - near and no more. More was not possible.

"My lord?"

Geraint's expression shifted to an affectionate glow as he accepted Uther's invitation and willingly approached. There, as Geraint ensured that their gaze remained unbroken, he placed both hands around one of Uther's wrists and caressed the inside of his arm with firm, deliberate strokes. Uther felt his body transform to dead weight, unable to resist and unwilling to fight. Geraint splayed Uther's hand in his own and fondled and worked the tips of his fingers one at a time, then pinched the leather of the index, pulling it forward in incrementally revealing tugs. Uther tried to resist by curling his fingers but one last pull and Uther's glove had been completely removed. He felt naked – exposed - but the sensations he was trying to subdue intensified. Geraint toyed with the leather prize, tenderly aligning the fingers. He placed the glove aside, letting it land on the papers with a quiet rustle. Then Geraint returned his gaze once more to his king. Uther was incapable of escape. The long, delicate lashes blinked at him and the corners of Geraint's eyes lifted with an expression of patient longing. With the same unhurried and deliberate attention, he proceeded to Uther's second wrist, second hand; and second glove. Only then did Geraint intertwine his fingers with Uther's – flesh against flesh - and eliminate the distance between them.

Geraint waited at his side and only the arm of an oak chair separated them, yet Uther knew this closeness was not enough; it would never be enough - not as long as Uther remained unsatisfied and beset by the primal urge to succumb to his innermost desires. The thought was emblazoned in his mind – ravenous and unrelenting. The carnal craving to have Geraint battled with his own formidable will to refuse. The stillness was Uther's advantage. He sat – utterly motionless and let these monumental seconds seep and ease past unclaimed. He waited. Uther heard himself sigh with a muted groan from the effort it took to resist this temptation. Geraint squeezed his hand gently, then stooped and marked his brow with a kiss. Uther's loins stirred again and his felt himself give way, his knees falling open – readying himself as his arousal took hold. Abandoning control he awkwardly put his hand at the base of Geraint's back. Uther coaxed him to slide over the armrest and into his lap, setting him high on his thigh, close enough that his weight would put tension on muscle and tendon and force Uther to slide his hips forward and …

"My lord?"

The voice invaded his consciousness. The sound was immediate. Real.

Uther flashed open his eyes. His hand reflexively opened and dropped, cupping his groin and hiding himself in shadows from eyes that could not see him. Awake. He did not blink. He did not move a second time. Staring forward, he identified the interruption.

"Morgana." Lack of sleep had transformed his tenor to coarse gravel.

She was at the far end of the room, leaning her head at an angle through a brief opening in the doorway, unsure of whether or not to enter. "Are you awake?"

"What are you doing up?" Uther said, deflecting inquiries.

"I was … dreaming. I couldn't sleep and saw the light from under your door. It is late, my lord."

"Yes." Uther agreed. "Thank you, Morgana." With that, he picked up the top-most letter, feigned a return to his studies and dismissed her with unrelenting inattention.


	19. Chapter 19

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

Author's Note: This chapter was inspired by a forum discussion regarding Morgana. Thank you for the debate. ; )

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Chapter 19

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Morgana sat at the dinner table in a silence not of her own creation.

To her credit, she had tried – four times in total – to engage Uther in conversation. What she received in return was curt, one word answers that could not belie even the remotest interest. When he responded he did not look at her directly but only lifted his chin slightly and half turned his head in her direction, the meagerest of courtesies. His gaze remained fixed on the candle flames. The flickering had hypnotized him into a deep, brooding stillness.

Their meal had been rich with choice and prepared to the habitual standards expected at this table. As the food was served, she watched him not eat with such absolute indifference that he did not even acknowledge the plate before him. Uther did not touch his knife or fork, nor even shift the food from here to there in a listless consideration of eating but discovering no appetite. His eyes pierced an unseen middle space and he remained unblinking and mute. The savory food had delighted her senses the moment the food had arrived and she wondered if Uther had lost his ability to taste and smell. How could anyone refuse such a meal?

It was roast beef with all the trimmings. Arthur's favourite. They would have fought over the last spoonfuls of the gravy and debated who had taken the most so far and therefore by all rights owed the last drizzling. Arthur would have insistent that he had indeed been relegated the smaller portion all along, having suffered at her greedy expense. He would then fix upon her one of his long-practiced and remarkably innocent expressions – embellished by lifted eyebrows and wide blinking eyes. That ability to feign innocence would infuriate her – as it always did - and she would point out all the evidence to the contrary that remained on his plate. She would counter with her own accusations of gluttony. Ever combative, he would counter - what she saw was all he was able to scrounge – a mere lick on the potatoes. They would go at it until one of them snickered. Then the other would echo it. Then they would both laugh and share the last bit of gravy between them.

Morgana missed him.

She missed having him around – present at every part of the day – at meals, at court, when their paths crossed in the corridors, when the four of them – Gwen, Merlin, she and Arthur – had some pressing mission to undertake. Arthur was – after his father the King - the secondary center of Camelot. His presence drove the activity and company and energy that he – by virtue of who he was in both title and personally – attracted. He had a constant circle of knights with him – gentleman of chivalry and honour – young and brave and clever. Morgana enjoyed her status and station that allowed her to remain close to the center of all that. She and Arthur were not together but neither were they apart. She felt the loss of his company keenly. With all of them gone – Morgana felt like she stood in the middle of the ball room after the party had suddenly ended. There was no one left. Camelot was a vacuum.

Morgana signed and turned her attention back to Uther. She watched him and at one point, the only proof she had that he was alive was a slow, deliberate blink of his eyes – as if he had lost the natural reflex to do so and had to consciously think about it. In his one hand, his fingers held the rim of a goblet that he periodically brought to his lips and drank without looking.

Seeing him drain his chalice, she tried a fifth time, hopeful that that she finally had a chance to converse with him. "More wine, my lord?"

"I will get it when I am ready."

There was no use asking him what was wrong or what he was thinking or if she could help. This was more than missing Arthur or worry about his troops or a preoccupation with court affairs. He had – as he was wont to do – withdrawn to the solace and rigors of his private thoughts. He had insulated himself from everyone and used stony silence as a protective shield from all intrusion. He confided in no one but himself. Perhaps he was the only one he trusted. Morgana knew this mood, had seen it often enough and knew that the only way to weather it was to endure it. It was – she thought – the single best advice for living with Uther Pendragon, King of Camelot. A great deal of endurance was required.

Yet there were times where life in the company of this man was not difficult or fraught with conflict. When he was like this – the thing she missed most about him was his laugh. Uther had – she thought – the most vigorous and honest laughter she had ever heard. It rose up from deep inside him – roaring and spirited – sounding tenor and robust. He threw back his head and – if enough provoked – the corners of his lids would almost crinkle shut, leaving his eyes slits of glittering joy. If one could find something that amused him, it was as good as finding treasure. It was a prize to behold to see him let loose a hearty, unrestrained guffaw. An amused Uther Pendragon could change the entire mood of court. If the king was pleased and in good humour, all was well within Camelot.

Arthur loved making his father laugh. It was the one thing that they could share that brought them together. They were able to be close – to touch each other – not in affection but friendly tousling – and it was they way a father and son should be. Each could love the other and able to share the company they desired most – that of the other. They had the same laugh. The same sense of humour. And when they were both happy in unison, all of Camelot seemed happy along with them.

Morgana knew the war weighed heavily upon Uther. She had not seen him laugh or even smile since he and Arthur had parted. Morgana had literally run into Arthur as he burst through the doors after his last encounter with his father. Arthur's entrance had startled her and he was obviously fuming. He refused to give her any answers. He did not need to; the nature of their conflict was always the same. But she knew they had had an argument. She always knew when they fought. Their body language mirrored each other and their inability to look at each other were signs enough. They would strut and prowl and fume, doing everything the could to contain the intense, twisted anger they reserved uniquely for the other. They had special weapons to use – designed to do maximum hurt and damage to each other in the most efficient manner possible. They battled like the true warriors they were. And when they fought, Morgana felt badly for both of them. She could see what neither of them would ever admit; that their anger was love turned inside out. Neither would ever confess it or even hint at it but Morgana believed they fought as they always fought – over their pride and competition with each other and – sadly – their inability to love each other any other way but through argument, impossible expectations and defiance. They were king and prince first – father and son second. Duty got in the way and made them blind to who the other was.

Morgana sat at the dinner table, meal complete but unwilling yet to leave her wine. Uther – in a remarkable flurry of movement – pressed his thumb and forefingers to his lids and squeezed. Blinking hard, he sighed, pushed back his chair and rose. He placed his empty goblet on the table and then started in evenly marked paces for the door. His gaze was forward and neither stopped nor looked at her as he spoke.

"I will not be disturbed."

She knew that instruction was veiled displeasure with her of the previous night's interruption. She had – in four nights – seen a light under his door well past midnight. For three nights, she merely observed the light and left him without interruption. Last night, concern had propelled her to the door. She had not intended to disturb him but her appearance had momentarily broken his train of thought and she knew without being asked that her attention had not been welcome. She had left him in peace.

Earlier that week, Morgana had seen Gaius again, having already sought advise about Uther. She knew they were old friends and she felt a responsibility to Uther to let Gaius know that the King had not been sleeping well. She secretly hoped Gaius would take it upon himself to visit and intrude where she could not. While he did not rebuff her directly, he did remind her that Uther knew well enough when to see the advice of the Court Physician. Morgana felt at a loss to argue and left but not before Gaius said to her quietly.

"I will see what I can do, Morgana."

True to his word, Gauis did visit court but he made no further headway than she had. Uther was as uncommunicative with his old friend as he had been with everyone else including Morgana. She knew Uther's preoccupation had taken hold of him in a way that rarely did. His dark, brooding mood grew deeper and deeper as the days wore on.

For her part, Morgana too, began to exhibit the effects of an altered Camelot. After several months of uninterrupted slumber, she had resumed the disturbances that left her sleepless and terrified. The dreams had come back again.

This time, they came as a trio. They were about Uther, Arthur and Geraint and repeated themselves over and over, round and round like a millwheel.

The first was about Uther. She could see him standing in a forest with an open wound in his chest, blood pouring out onto his gloved hands. His expression was one of surprise and confusion, as if unexpectedly defied. The black halo surrounded Uther and Morgana knew this symbol as a sign of death. Uther looked down and then lifting up his hands, he revealed their gore to her. His frown deepened and then he collapsed, dropping to one knee. Morgana was rooted, unable to reach out to him and help. He struggled to get up but he weakened with each effort, finally his twisting his torso dropped to the ground. His hands fell away to the sides and he lay still. Morgana knew he was slain. It was cold and black and silent. He was dead. Alone. His heart had been exposed and torn from his body. She took on the pain he felt as he died – it flooded her in a groundswell of inconsolable grief that she felt only once in her life – when her father died. In her dream, Uther had been broken. Shattered. Destroyed from within.

The next dream was about Arthur. She could see him in a meadow, dismounted from his horse that stood nearby. Arthur was lost – not afraid – but confused, trying to find his way. A ground fog rose and surrounded him, blocking his vision. He was badly wounded – gashes across both arms so severe he had lost the use of his wrists and hands. Blood streamed down his sleeves and he began to stagger. Without warning, a soldier emerged from behind. Arthur heard the approach and turned to defend himself but his hands were of no use and he could not draw his sword. He faced his attacker and stood his ground. As the broadsword cut him down in a single blow, he looked away but did not flinch. He staggered his knees, then fell forward.

In the last dream Geraint appeared. He stood at the edge of the sea at sunset. He was dressed in armor and held his sword downward, as if he had just finished battle. He started walking towards the waves. Morgana cried out to him but could not get his attention. Her voice was nothing but a sigh. He waded out into the shallow waters and beyond. Geraint kept walking as the water grew deep, first at boot level, then hip deep. He was buffeted and swayed from the force of the tides that suddenly took hold. She was terrified – wanting to look away but unable to – desperately compelled to call out to him but she was mute. Morgana knew he could save himself and still had time to turn back. There was nothing left for him and he chose death instead of one last fight. Singleminded, he refused all help. He chose to keep going towards the sunset and she knew that he would soon reach a point of no return and he would be lost forever. A wave washed over his head that drew him below the surface. His head reappeared. Then a second wave hit. He slipped away and did not struggle.

"Stop! Come back!" She thrashed around and this night she was awoken by Gwen's firm shake of her shoulder.

"Are you alright? Wake up. It's just a dream."

Morgana bolted upright in bed, out of breath from the fear the images invoked.

"Oh, Gwen." She gasped, burying her face in her hands in grief. These dreams were so real, it took a few moments to let the emotion ebb. She looked up and gave Gwen the explanation she was waiting for.

"He killed himself."

"Who?"

Morgana made room for Gwen as she sat on the edge of the bed. "Geraint."

"Geraint?" Gwen frowned, doubting. "Why? Geraint would not kill himself. Not Geraint. Of all men, Morgana …"

"It was so real, Gwen. It was like looking into a bottomless well. There was just no light. He was just … lost … utterly lost."

"This is the fifth night in a row." Gwen pulled pack Morgana's long hair from her face affectionately like a doting nurse. "Do you think … do you think Gaius could help you?"

"All he will do is give me a sleeping draught. It doesn't help. The dreams just end up being longer and more terrible because I can't wake up."

"This is the fifth night in a row." She repeated herself to argue.

"I know." She covered her face with her hands and closed her eyes. She could see Geraint yet, deliberately going deeper and deeper into the water, the chainmail weighing him down, not fighting the waves or rescuing himself. The futility squeezed the air out of her lungs. He had been so completely voided of hope. She lifted her head, "Why Geraint?"

"I don't know."

"It was so vivid. He wanted to die. I don't understand. Geraint would not ever do this …"

Morgana and Gwen had had many conversations – secret assessments as young women were inclined to do – about Geraint. He was so different that the other men they knew. Never one for boldness with women, he kept almost exclusively to the company of his fellow soldiers and that – naturally – made him all the more attractive – not just to Gwen and Morgana but the other women of Camelot.

Gracious – Morgana had said – chivalrous in a way that none of the other Knights even understood. Geraint – they both agreed – could teach the other eligible men in court all about fine manners. He seemed to intuitively understand how a woman most wanted to be treated and spoken to and heard. That was it – they had decided summing up their analysis – Geraint had an uncommon gift for listening. He remembered things that would have gone unnoticed by – well – they gleefully chose to be specific - Arthur or Merlin. Geraint remembered special days – like birthdays. He knew their particular preferences for one horse over another, their love of fresh apple pie from the market and wanting to pick the first violets in spring.

Gwen summed him up best one day, "He's kind. Thoughtful. But so awkward around women. I get the feeling that he's very shy but wants very badly to be friends but can't and so he makes up for it by being … well … attentive – as if those small, little things are all he can do. It's like being a soldier has made him something that he does not want to be but he can't be anything else. He just doesn't know how."

"The dream was so real." Morgana said again, having more difficulty than usual setting aside the graphic images. The feeling of hopelessness persisted.

Gwen patted her hand. "I know your dreams are … powerful. But it was still just a dream. It didn't really happen."

Morgana viewed her lady in waiting, knowing Gwen said the words out of a desire to comfort and out of habit and not necessarily belief. Gwen and Morgana both knew better.

Truth lived in every dream she had ever had.


	20. Chapter 20

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

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Chapter 20

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"That should keep you for a week." Gaius handed the woman a small bottle containing a liquid cure for a minor skin irritation. "Mind you use it sparingly. If you can, keep your little Kenneth from scratching his arms."

With that instruction, the woman gave him thanks and ushered out her son, who – upon hearing the advice – gave his arms a couple final scrapes before his mother chastised him.

Gaius crossed the floor and stood in front of the long bench covered with half-assembled glassware. He picked up a beaker and held it to the light, inspecting for cleanliness. The outside was filled with smudges.

"Merli – …" He handed the beaker to his left then stopped himself. It was habit. There was no Merlin. The longer his absence, the more Gaius missed his apprentice. It was not just that the dirty glassware had accumulated or that key supplies of herbs had gone very low. There was an emptiness – an echo – in this room that Gaius had never noticed before now. It was worst when he was alone but even more noticeable when the room was crowded and full of people. Among the chorus of voices, there was no lilting baseline timber – that of laughter and enthusiasm of Merlin. Gaius missed the minor accidents, the mayhem, the boldy-told lies that he always forgave.

Gaius put down the beaker and picked up another, hoping for something cleaner and finding none. Putting the second beaker on the bench, he sat down with a heaviness equal to the one in his heart. He felt suddenly morose and lacking concentration. Some days, Gaius thought, there was simply no point in attempting science.

Before he could develop his sadness into a hearty loneliness, a knock at the door drew his attention. He turned and she entered needing only his nod. She was slightly out of breath – as if she had hurried – and her just so curls had come lose from the tie and framed her face. Looped over an arm was a large wicker containter.

"Ah Gwen." He stood up and met her with open arms. "Is this for me?" He relieved her of the basket she held out for him.

"I thought you might need a little help. Merlin sometimes asks me to keep him company so I have a pretty good idea what you send him out for."

"This is delightful. I must say. You've done a fine job." He began poking around, pulling out bundles of this and that, sorting them into piles for next steps and mentally checking off the list he had of his current supply deficiencies. With fresh supplies, Gaius realized he could use the day to replenish his stock of salves and draughts. The gift rejuvenated him and he pulled out his leather-bound apothecary reference, welcoming the constructive diversion.

A soft clearing of the throat made him look up.

"Oh." He said. "You're still here? I thought you had gone. Was there something else, Gwen?"

She put her hands behind her back and swayed, as if she were debating what to say. Taking a deep breath, she started. "Has … has Morgana … been by to see you?"

"Today? No. Why?" He put down his book and paid attention. He peered over his glasses, studying her with physician acuity. Gwen seemed nervous and still reluctant.

"What is it?"

"The dreams have started again." Once the first words were uttered, the rest came in a rush of relief. "She's had them for the past week. They're terrible. She wakes up screaming and she's afraid to go back to sleep. I keep telling her to come and see you. She would be quite unhappy if she knew I had … "

"I understand." Gaius assured her. "Your secret is safe with me but why won't she visit herself?"

"The last draught you gave her made it worse."

"Oh? How so?"

"It made her sleep but then, when the dreams came, she could not wake. The dreams did not stop. She said it trapped her in the nightmares."

"Ah." Gaius nodded, "I see. And she could not tell me this?"

"She didn't want to hurt your … "

"I understand, Gwen." He stopped her explanation, holding up a hand.

Gwen appeared guilty – as if she had said too much and wanted to avoid more disclosure. She pointed towards the door, first with one, then both hands then retreated.

"Well. I have to go. I … if you could … if she comes … not tell her … that I was here?"

"Of course not …" he said and released her. "Thank you, Gwen. For everything."

Gaius returned to his fresh collection of herbs and picked out the first recipe to follow. He knew it by heart but always felt it prudent to follow directions – that way he eliminated a certain class of mistakes. After a time, he became absorbed by his preparations. He had the burners set to low and the water almost boiling. Several ramekins were set out in a row and he held a mortar and pestle while he watched the water, absently grinding down the first herb mixture. He heard no knock and was first aware of the presence by a gentle voice from behind.

"Gaius?"

He turned.

"Morgana." He greeted her and, setting aside his preparations, he welcomed her into the room and bid her to sit. With some gentle prodding, he was able to navigate the conversation towards what she had both clearly come for but was unwilling to discuss. After Gaius mused about how Arthur might be faring, she at last disclosed that she had had a recurrence of her dreams.

"One of them was about Arthur" Morgana seemed affected by emotion. She said his name tenderly, as if she were caressing him. She blinked away a sudden wateriness in her eyes. "He was alone and badly wounded. He could not defend himself. Then the enemy … he was cut down …" She began to well up again, then shook her head and steeled herself. "I'm sorry, Gaius. I tell myself it's just a dream. Yet it … it has been the same every night for over a week. I can't tell Uther. What if something has happened to Arthur? Or will happen?"

"No. No. Don't tell Uther." Gaius shook his head in support. They had achieved a mutual and unspoken consensus to maintain the illusion that her dreams were simple phantoms of the mind. Secretly, they both new her dreams were stark premonitions about what would happen. It was safer – however – to call them dreams.

"Whatever you do. He has enough worries without thinking that his son might be in peril. If this has gone on for a week, you must be in some want of sleep, Morgana. Would you like me to blend a mild sleeping draught for you?"

"No, Gaius. I just wanted to talk to someone … who … "She picked her last word carefully, "Understood." She rose to leave. "Thank you …"

"Morgana. I can give you something quite mild. You might not have found relief in the last one I gave you. I admit it was a bit strong. I can give you a small dosage made with a different combination of herbs. Shall I?"

Morgana was agreeable and Gaius sent her away with a small bottle. Hiding it in her hand, Morgana left him to return to his preparations. He had the distillation almost complete when he was aware of a presence at his doorway. A child's voice arose behind him.

"Will we go in?"

Gaius smiled to himself. Children were such wonderful innocents – able to speak and give voice to nervous tensions carried by adults.

"Hanna." Gaius reduced the level of flame and welcomed her inside.

Two children were with her – each circled an arm around her legs. She nodded and pushed the children forward. They were reluctant. One buried his face in the apron of her dress.

"Hello, Gaius." She bowed her head and gave him a half curtsy.

"What can I do for you?" He looked at the two children for signs of illness. "Are all you well?"

"Oh. Yes." She said. "I ... I ..." she stuttered and looked down.

Gaius offered her a chair to invite her in further. "Please. Sit down, Hanna. Bring in your children." She settled one child on her knee and the other remained standing. As he took a place opposite her, he asked the question again. "Now tell me, Hanna. What brings you here?"

"I have a letter." She said quietly, pulling a piece of folded paper from her apron pocket.

"Oh. Of course, Hannah." Gaius adjusted his glasses. He often acted as translator for some of his patients – families he had know for generations – who had not had the opportunity for schooling. Hanna – as was the rest of her family – was illiterate.

"It's from Tom." She could recognize her husband's name. Perhaps she knew a few words – identified by shape, not meaning.

He opened the letter. The handwriting was elegant, cursive, written by someone well-educated. It was scribed for a man – like his wife – who had no ability to read or write. The letter was brief – only one page – and had wide empty margins. Gaius skimmed and began reading ...

"_My dear wife: _

_Has been much rain these past days. Not much sun. Food is hot and I miss yours._

_The men are all in good spirits and we are all well. James your brother asked that I say he is well. Please tell Marlene that he misses her."_

At the mention of James and Marlene – she smiled. Hannah listened intently, her hand toying with the fabric of her collar as she took in each word. Gaius continued to read slowly, knowing that she was committing to memory all he was saying.

"_We keep marching forward and encounter not much resistance."_

Gaius skimmed again a second time, silently reviewing the next paragraph. He stopped speaking and read these next lines in silence. He felt his breath leave him and he stifled a gasp.

Unwilling to believe that he had understood what was written, Gaius re-read the lines several times. Every time, he felt sick. It could not be true. He turned over the letter to inspect for any identifying marks of the writer. There was no evidence who had written the letter except for the common style of cursive writing. This must have come from one of Arthur's knights. Gaius was certain Geraint's platoon would not have any men with such a fine hand nor perfect spelling and grammar.

A tentative voice brought him back. "Is there more?"

"Yes. Yes." Gaius said and skipped to the end of the letter.

"_I pray you and the children are all well. Tell them I may be home soon. Yours always, Tom."_

Gaius fondled the letter and pretended not to notice Hannah's waiting and outstretched hand to retrieve what was hers. Reading the lines again, he did not want to give her back the letter. The content was too critical to allow it be released unguarded. He wanted to keep the missive, to study it, to debate what to do with it. Would it be suspicious if he asked to keep it?

"What will you do with the letter, Hannah?"

She smiled, almost blushing. "I will keep it with me."

Gauis folded the letter, as if he was readying to return it. He pressed his fingers across the folds several times, then asked. "Would you mind, Hannah … if I kept the letter? This is the ... first ... communiqué we have had from the front and ... you can understand how the King might be interested ... "

"There is nothing said, is there?"

Gauis recalled a few of the words. "There is a line here. About the advance. I am sure the King would want to see this."

It was enough that he used the King as cause. There was nothing that Uther would be denied by his loyal subjects. Gaius assured her she would have the letter returned to her shortly and she agreed, leading the two children to the door with motherly encouragement and a guiding hand at each back.

Gauis waved as she closed the door. Once the door was shut, he pulled out the letter and read the next three sentences in silence.

"_Our prince has been severely wounded and we wake daily wondering if he has survived the night. Geraint has deserted us and we have not seen him for nigh on two weeks. I despair of seeing either man return to Camelot alive."_

An ice hand held his heart and squeezed. He sat in still silence, the letter held in his trembling hands.

How on earth was he going to tell Uther?


	21. Chapter 21

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

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Chapter 21

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Uther sat at the head of the table; a meal untouched before him. The food had been edible; he had no appetite. Every evening, he had come to this dining room to give others the impression of normalcy and that his habits were undisturbed. If treason was in the air, patterns would watched; deviations would be noted. He maintained the illusion where he could.

Morgana – who knew enough to leave him undisturbed – nonetheless had tried twice to engage him in conversation at dinner. Her intentions were good; her timing unwelcome. It was only with effort that he provided her one word responses. As was true for the last several nights – he did not want to fill his mind with useless chatter. What he wanted – needed – was time in peace and quiet to think.

His cerebral efforts had not gone unrewarded. Uther had – by a combination of complex contemplation and shrewdly executed ruses - narrowed down his list of likely treasonous candidates to seven, then three and then two.

Uther had been making progress. Earlier that day, Sir Edward, father of Sir Frederick, had demonstrated that he was incapable of protracted stealth. Uther had proven this to his satisfaction with a test of his ability to remain mute that – Uther was delighted to discover – failed utterly. It left only two men with whom Uther needed to concern himself. Sir Lennox and Sir Hugh both had means and motive and Uther was focused on them both to the exclusion of all others. That was – until a very random remark was made within his earshot but not for his consumption.

Sir Lennox and Sir Hugh had been discussing the maps that Uther had challenged them to review. Uther had grown increasingly suspicious that they were associated with treasonous activity but was uncertain of the specifics. He had been hoping to determine whether or not they would betray themselves with unexpected revelations. Deliberately drifting away, he nonetheless kept a close watch on the two of them. With their heads put together, one had said to the other …

"Geraint must have meddled with them." Sitting back, Sir Lennox pondered. "We don't know a thing about him. Do you know where he came from?"

"Not I. My son tells me he is a drifter. Never stays in one place too long. I have a distant cousin who relates he left his last position suddenly under suspicious silence."

With that, Uther had retreated unnoticed. He did not want to hear any more. Implicitly, Uther trusted Geraint – trusted him with one of his platoons, with his private thoughts, with his son. Uther did not need to hear how other men – who had been removed from his inner circle of advisors – did not approve of an unknown. The comments were petty, jealous, conjecture passing as fact. For his part, Uther believed he knew Geraint – knew how he thought, knew what he thought, knew how he acted and why. Geraint was transparent to Uther; a common soldier with an uncommon ability for strategy.

Yet despite all this profound confidence in Geraint - in that brief exchange - the very tiniest of seeds had been planted in Uther's mind that could not be removed. A fraction at a time, the doubt grew and branched out. The more he tried to eradicate the idea, the firmer it took root. What did he really know about Geraint? He did not know the man's family or where he was born apart from a vague sense of north. Conveniently perhaps – the family was dead and the place of his birth a distant land. It was not impossible, nor a particularly unusual circumstance. Camelot was a prosperous land; it appealed to those who wanted to work hard for a new life. In this time of war, was it merely a coincidence or an expert cover for secrets?

With each line of self-questioning, Uther contradicted the poison thoughts with examples of Geraint's loyalty; his unwavering dedication and his unshakeable allegiance. Uther could not, would not believe that Geraint was anything but a devoted servant to the King. Uther had – on many occasions – sat opposite this man in serious debate, in military instruction and – perhaps most rare – in unguarded moments of comradeship and humour. He knew this man and knew him incapable of treason.

At that point, he had convinced himself Geraint was no more a threat than a mouse and had himself satisfied. Then the little grain of doubt would shift and stir and flex and grow. Uther would have to admit to himself that no one – not one single person – excepting perhaps his own son – was truly above suspicion. Until he knew for certain, he would not truly know. And that would start the whole cycle over again.

Uther then added one more to the debate of Sir Lennox and Sir Hugh and found himself with three men of suspicion. Two were certain and a third – because he could not prove otherwise – Geraint. Had he remained in Camelot, Uther would have simply grilled him with ruthless questions and observed how the man answered. All would have been clear in moments. His name – Uther told himself – was on the list purely for academic completeness. That was all.

"More wine, my lord?"

Uther blinked and broke his stare from the candle flame. He looked at her and wondered if she had had to ask him more than once. He motioned his approval without speaking and she rose, leaning over to reach the decanter. Morgana walked towards him unhurriedly - one foot stepping directly in front of the last - making her hips sway in that way women had that made men lose their train of thought. Standing at his side, she held the handle with one hand and the other caressed the base with a graceful palm. She paused and waited for him to hold out his goblet. This close, he could smell the richness of her perfume. It was an exotic scent; heady, expensive. He leaned forward and pushed his cup across the table towards her.

As she bent forward, the curves of her full breasts were revealed beneath a diaphanous fabric. She took a breath and her body shifted - her flesh pressing against the edge of her deeply cut neckline. It occurred to him how neatly his hand could have formed around her nearest breast. He wondered if he would have been able to coax her towards him and brush his gloved hand down the line of her translucent white throat. As she poured, her dark flowing curls rolled forward and settled into the valley of her natural cleavage. She smiled again briefly and looked at him with wide eyes filled with youthful intensity. Uther studied her. Morgana continued pouring; unaware that innocence alone could be an aphrodisiac and not understanding the power that it could have over men. Her weapon of sex had not yet been unsheathed and her influence over men was still unknown to her. She had all that beauty could bestow; she was a prize of uncommon quality. This close to her – with all of the promise of submission and ecstasy her body held for a man - Uther felt … nothing.

"Enough." He stopped her and she returned to her seat.

Uther considered her. She was not a complete fool and was matched almost perfectly to his son in headstrong and opinionated ways. Yet the concern for him was genuine. For all their disagreements he and Morgana did share affection of a kind for each other. Her intentions were noble but she possessed no ability at providing him useful discourse and so she would remain no wiser about his innermost thoughts. In Uther's court, Morgana was passion lacking experience; prettiness and devotion without depth beyond a well-developed empathy for others. She had the softness of someone who had always lived a life of luxury, never once having dirt under her fingernails or needing to work for meagre sustenance and shelter. She had not lived through the chaos that was once Camelot and could not appreciate its current ordered state.

He was well aware that she knew he was withholding from her. Uther did not particularly care. Her feelings were not his concern. Camelot was.

She returned to her chair and she ate in silence. He continued to drink as he focused on the flame of the nearest candle. His notice of her faded away as he returned to the company of his thoughts.

"My lord," Morgana prompted another discussion. She was nothing if not persistent. "Are you not well tonight?"

"I'm fine." He had pulled himself out of his deep reverie to answer her.

"Did you not enjoy the meal? Almost nothing is gone from your plate."

Morgana had an uncommon life for a woman. She sat at the hand of a king and lived a rare and privileged life. She was safe and protected by men, her whims indulged and had every necessity of life in qualities and quality.

Other women in Camelot lived the regular life of being a daughter then a wife and mother. Through it all – they too – would be protected by brothers, fathers, husbands. Their lives were harder – often inheriting trades and skills of their families they were born or married into – but perhaps just as happy. Women unfortunate enough to find themselves without family led short and gritty lives. They lived at the fringes – whoring or stealing – subject to ever present harm and cruelty at the hands of men who benefited from taking advantage of them.

A distraction arose at one end of the room. Uther and Morgana each turned their attention to the intrusion. The far doors swung and guards held them open.

Gaius glided into the frame of the doorway, his hands muffed by his long sleeves. The light in the hallway cast his face into shadow but Uther nonetheless gleaned an urgency about him. He waited for his old friend to step across the threshold and nod in that courteous manner he had.

"Excuse me, sire."

"Gaius." He invited the physician forward with his name. As he entered, Uther studied his walk and facial expression for advanced news. Here was a man for whom calmness was a way of life yet he presented unease.

"What is it that you want?"

"Sire." He began and then stopped abruptly. Gaius' eyes flicked to Morgana, then back to him. "Might I … might I have a word with you?" He sounded breathless.

His hands emerged from the muff sleeves to grasp hold of the closest chair back, as if he had to keep himself from swaying. Uther translated it into an unconscious expression of shock in an otherwise unflappable man. Something had disrupted his peace. Items of little consequence did not have that kind of power over Gaius.

"What is it?"

"In private?" It was a request rarely made and Uther did not hesitate to indulge him with the answer.

"Morgana. You are excused." Uther did not look at her. His attention was otherwise engaged by the Royal Physician. Uther had begun preparing himself for whatever news was to follow. It was sensitive enough for Gaius to ask for a personal audience. A list of options scrolled through his mind. Uther's sleeplessness came to mind; Morgana may well have made a surreptitious visit to Gaius and expressed worry, divulging that he had no appetite, protracted wakefulness and silent retreat. Uther would have to find a way to escape overt fuss. A direct order would do if he failed to alleviate concern. Or it could be that there was some issue that affected the citizens of Camelot – perhaps a minor sickness had taken hold in a quarter of the city. Gaius would need only inform him of recommended actions and Uther would approve the approach. In matters of medicine, he regularly deferred to Gaius. Or possibly – although unlikely because Gaius was not a military man – he was here to inquire about the war. For that – Uther had no interest in sharing details.

"Tell me."

"Sire." He did not hesitate but went straight to the point, knowing that Uther would not have tolerated idle conversation. "I have a letter of some interest." He pulled a single sheet from his pocket and ignored Uther's outstretched hand.

Gaius stroked a folded edge with an index finger and continued after some thought. "I was asked to read it for a woman who cannot. I did not reveal all the contents to her."

Uther remained with his hand outstretched, waiting.

Gaius continued to fondle the letter with pensive nervousness. "I have this now with her permission."

Uther curled his fingers back and forth in unison with a flicking motion.

"Sire. I am reluctant to …" He continued to fondle the edge.

"Give it to me." Uther ordered.

Wordlessly, Gaius gave the parchment one last stroke and handed him the letter.

Uther snapped open the letter and held at an angle to catch the candle light. He began reading. The first few sentences were banal. He moved on, knowing that Gaius would not waste his time. One more small paragraph and then – immediately upon reading the next few words – Uther knew he had come to the central content.

"_Our prince has been severely wounded and we wake daily wondering if he has survived the night. Geraint has deserted us and we have not seen him for nigh on two weeks. I despair of seeing either man return to Camelot alive."_

It was like being thrown from a horse at a gallop. His chest constricted, driving the breath from him in a single gasp. The news seared his heart. Uther froze.

The words blurred and refocused in front of him. This could not be true. He began to re-read them in their entirety, knowing with utter certainty that he had simply misunderstood what he thought he had read and wanted to discover the error in his comprehension. Then this news would not be this news.

"_Our prince has been severely wounded…"_

Their prince. His flesh and blood; his son. Wounded? This was not possible.

They had parted in anger; no kindness or affection between them. No hope expressed of a safe return or Godspeed. Uther could see his son yet, seated on the best horse in Camelot, dressed for battle and royal robes flowing behind. Arthur's eyes – those eyes that were haunted by the ghost of Igraine – had looked past him, looked through him, looked beyond seeing and simply carried hurt and anger and hate. That could not be the last memory Uther would have of his son. It could not.

"…_we wake daily wondering if he has survived the night."_

This was a mistake. Arthur was well. He was whole and hearty and destined to live a long and fruitful life. He could not die. He would not die. His son. Not this night nor any night so long as Uther lived. He was the King. He would be denied nothing. Nothing except a son he could understand and instruct.

"_Geraint has deserted us …"_

Above all men, Geraint would have stayed and fought. The man was loyal. He swore allegiance to the King and proudly dedicated his life to Camelot. He could not have left his post. At the same time that Uther thought that desertion was a shame too profound to bear, that little seed of doubt trembled and sprung another root of suspicion.

"_I despair of seeing either man return to Camelot alive"._

The words defied Uther's will. His son could not die.

"This is impossible." He hardly had a voice. Flicking over the letter, he scoured the page for clues and found none. He bore into Gaius with a fierce stare. "Who wrote this?"

"I do not know, Sire. It is as it came to me." Gaius said. "The writing is fine. The spelling is accurate. An educated man, I think." He left the rest of the conclusion for Uther to complete.

"You think one of Arthur's knights wrote this?"

"I know of no one else it could be."

Uther stared at the letter, still unbelieving but believing. If this were true, he needed one more memory of his son. It could not be the cruelty of their equally malicious parting. It had been Arthur's fault. It had been Uther's fault. It had been both of their fault and neither of their fault. He refused to have heartache be the last memory of his son.

How did Uther come to be locked in this perpetual battle of wills with his son? Why did love get smothered by competition and high expectation? Why could neither of them bend? He was the father. Why could he not indulge his son with a moment or two of genuine affection? Why did he insist on such rigid compliance to his own will? Uther knew that – deep down – he did not want to break the spirit of his son. He wanted him to grow strong, capable, worthy of the crown. His son was not weak but Uther was ever compelled to push him beyond all limits. He did it in the name of preparing him to reign but he knew that both of them lost something from their mutual intolerance.

Then Uther ended the audience with Gaius. "My son. I must see my son."

"But sire. You cannot leave Camelot undefended. Without you here, what would happen? There is treason afoot."

"Do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do. This is my son. If he still lives, I must do everything in my power to save him."

"But …"

"He is my son!" Uther stood abruptly, kicking back the chair and slamming his hands down so hard his palms stung. The chair smashed to the floor and spiralled towards the wall. He froze the air with his words. "Did you not hear me?"

"Yes, Sire." Gaius held his ground.

"I will find my son and he will be alive."

"Sire." It was the mark of this man to always treat the King with absolute deference. But in those few critical times when Uther needed it most, Gaius refused to cower or back down from his fierce temper. Gaius danced his fingers across the table top and made another effort. "What if this letter is a ruse? What if this is designed to lure you from Camelot?"

"Well, Gaius. See to it that Camelot does not fall while I am away."

"I … I beg your pardon, Sire?"

"You know very well what I intend. I will leave you in charge. You are the only man left in Camelot that I can trust."

"I am flattered, Sire … but … that would be highly unusual." Gaius eased into a debate as one might wade into deep, unchartered waters, "Would it not make more sense if I went to see Arthur and you remained here? After all, I am better suited to caring for the sick and injured; and you – of course – best suited to keep order in Camelot."

"If my son must die, it will be in my arms. Besides, I have been on the battlefield long enough to have had more than my fair share of experience treating wounds of war. You will pack me appropriate supplies."

"But …"

"I will debate this no further, Gaius. I will leave by first light."


	22. Chapter 22

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

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Chapter 22

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Geraint had spent days surveying the expansive territory. Unencumbered by the responsibilities of leading a platoon, she was able to travel lightly, quickly and at great length. While her objective had been military reconnaissance, she nonetheless took great pleasure in the sheer freedom of exploration of – to her – undiscovered lands.

One day, she stood atop a peak late in the afternoon when the sun had painted the landscape with great swaths of golds and reds and oranges. The wind swirled around her - brisk and invigorating - and she surveyed the vast lands around her. One side was dominated by a mountain range that faded into distant mists. On another side, forests that expanded into infinity. In front of her, fields that rippled under the ebb and flow of fragrant breezes linked the two sides together. The furthest reaches of Camelot were just like its epicentre – breathtaking in its beauty and natural wonders. The lands were verdant. The views from the highest peaks were stunning. Both flora and fauna were plentiful and thriving; exotic and vigorous. A hawk soared high overhead and screeched; its echo fading with each repeat. She understood with renewed clarity and an unexpected surge of emotion why Uther loved Camelot. This untouched splendour was the land he defended with all his might and ruled with all his energy. She knew why this was a place worth sacrificing one's life for.

From there, she continued her travels. In intervals that afforded her some relief from long stretches of living rough, she came across rustic villages that welcomed her – fed and housed her – then bid her farewell. It had become easy for her to fall into a rhythm of rising with the sun, making the most of every day and then sleeping as dusk surrendered to night.

The infamous map had ultimately proved rife with errors but of a sort subtle enough that a casual inspection would not detect it. The mistakes were also of a particular type – specifically designed so that in the hands of an army leader who followed it blindly or even inattentively - it would ultimately lure them into harm. The confusion would have been incremental and the misguidance would have happened in stages. Minor corrections would have been made for what might have been considered excusable variations on the part of a scribe. The inaccuracies would have been easily adjusted in the field. Then – once beyond the waterfalls and the edge where Camelot ended and foreign territory began, options would have diminished and forward motion would have been possible by only one route. The military would have had about another day of uneventful advance, then the Knights of Camelot and the Second Platoon would have entered a steep valley that ran as a series of severe 's' curves. It was just beyond the first major bend – hidden until one was almost upon it - that Geraint discovered a second army posted. There were men, horses, and weapons with a combined battle strength exceeding Arthur and Geraint's platoons by tenfold. This army was well-rested, well-fed and inhabited higher ground. They were simply waiting for Camelot's army to approach for slaughter. After a detailed and undetected reconnaissance, she had seen enough. The map had been copiously annotated and she began the long trip back to rendezvous with the Knights of Camelot and the Second Platoon.

As she made her way back, she considered how the maps came to be. Sir Edward was the Royal Mapmaker – the geographer – the man who was entrusted with obtaining, archiving and scribing all the information of the terrain. The two maps had personally come from Sir Edward. She remembered at the time how strangely overt the presentation of them had been. It evolved into a ceremony of a kind – and she remembered thinking that the tradition of maps in Camelot was curious. At court, Sir Edward made a habit of a particular association with Sir Hugh and Geraint knew that Sir Hugh had kept a sharp, critical eye on the King. With the maps attributed to Sir Edward, she believed that he was acting under the likely influence of Sir Hugh.

Both Sir Edward and Sir Hugh had sons in the campaign. Sir Keith and Sir Ellis were two of Arthur's knights. She did not debate long whether or not they were involved. Sir Ellis had a reputation for being one of the best marksmen in all of Camelot. It was not a leap of faith to imagine him being involved in the crossbow activity. Perhaps he was the one actually taking the shots. It would have been easy enough to do. There was sufficient chaos in military manoeuvres to disappear for a short time and not be missed. The arrows she had found supported that theory; they were likely set out in advance of an attack. As Sir Keith was as close with Ellis as his father was with Sir Edward, it was quite possible that they were working together. Geraint counted four men; and wondered how wide the plot had spread and what had been promised to whom. The neighbouring army was certainly prepared to destroy all of King Uther's defences. Without an army for defence, Uther and Camelot would surely fall to enemies.

As she put the pieces together, the rendezvous with Arthur grew more and more important. While she was certain that he would not proceed beyond the forks of the Renaud Valley, there was damage that these two rogue knights could do on their own. Accidents happened. Murder was not difficult. Geraint knew that the ever-present threat of Crossbow would be eliminated only when Crossbow was revealed and killed. Geraint believed in Arthur's ability to remain sharp and alert to any threats. Yet she knew that without neutralizing the threats, Arthur could be easily harmed or injured; worse if they had a clean shot. They had all the time in the world – all the opportunity with plausible alibis if suspected.

Geraint had traveled two long days – each day getting up before dawn and traveling almost non-stop to just past dusk – so that she could cross the border back into Camelot. It felt more secure being within its borders; as if this place had become home. While she had no fear along her travels, she nonetheless felt less vulnerable within Camelot. Here lived those she knew well and who she secretly wished could be her friends. For now, they were companions - her hidden identity prevented anything more – yet these were people who knew her as well as she could allow and they would have worried about her well-being if they knew she had come to harm. Without relatives of her own, these people had a compounded importance to her. Geraint considered them family. Merlin, Gwen, and Gaius knew her well beyond her rank, as did Uther who had become a dominant force in her life beyond King; he was also mentor and teacher. Moreover, he reciprocated a rare companionship that she had never before experienced. Even Arthur had reached a peace with her that she now valued. They were all she had and – as a result – their basic friendliness and casual camaraderie had eliminated the deep loneliness that she had so often felt. Over and above friends, Camelot was also a place where she could use her talents to benefit a King who appreciate them and used them to their fullest extent. For all this, Geraint repaid them all with her unending allegiance and loyalty. It might well be that they would never know the extent of her unfailing devotion and that did not matter. What did matter was that she held abiding gratitude in her heart for all their insignificant kindnesses when they treated her as if she belonged.

It was well into dusk when she passed into Camelot once again. She sighed, relieved and contented. Eating a quick meal scavenged along the way, she found herself a niche under an overhang of rock and vines. She fell asleep in her usual fashion – having her cloak wrapped around her for warmth and a hand settled on her hilt in case she was woken by an unexpected threat. The speed and distance that she had traveled that day drew her into a sound and dreamless sleep. It was dawn before she again opened her eyes.

She awoke with a start. The heel of a hand rested on her brow, the palm flat on her forehead and the fingers curled into her hairline. Her reflex was automatic and defensive. Retreating from his touch, Geraint's hand switched to her dirk and a second later, she had it in her hand unsheathed. Throwing back the edge of her cloak, she readied for attack. Shifting her feet under her, Geraint increased her defensive stance. All at once she felt resistance, as if her heels were sinking into a thick mud. Her knees were locked and immovable.

Eyes glowed down on her, brilliant with a strange amber. He extended his fingers, forming them into a gnarled claw. His lips moved but he uttered no sound. She felt laden down by a smothering heaviness.

"Who are you?" Her chest constricted and she worked hard to breathe against ribs that would not expand. She stared up and squinted into the sun that shone in a misty dawn brilliance. All she could distinguish of the silhouette were a pair of lustrous eyes.

He continued to block the light, keeping her at a visual disadvantage and, with his wordless chant, avoided her dagger without effort.

"Who are you?" Using focused effort, Geraint's weak hand again closed over the hilt of her dagger. Her fingers had lost the ability to grip, her elbows sagged and her arms became too heavy to lift. The will to defend herself was beginning to ebb along with her strength and coordination. She fought to retreat from his touch as he fondled the leather ties at her throat. His hand flattened across her shoulder and traced an outline from her throat along her collarbone. Then he found the edge of her cloak and smoothed his hand down her front over her bound breasts. She fell forward – the only movement she was able to perform to escape from his exploring hand. He let her fall forward uncaught as he found her pocket and withdrew her now-corrected map.

"Who … are you?" Frailty seeped into her bones. The amber eyes persisted and Geraint suddenly realized – she was being ensnared by magic.

On numerous occasions Uther had described magic to her in private conversations that he could start in calmness but – if the topic lingered too long - always ended in dark, foreboding hatred that made Geraint's hair stand on end. Magic brought out a fierceness in Uther; a primal, bloodthirsty lust that could turn his expression to stone and his gaze to flame.

There was one lesson and one lesson only when he talked of magic. He had told her over and over again – until she could believe no possible exception to the rule; the only way to fight magic was to kill it. His view was so extreme that Geraint could believe he would murder a babe with his bare hands to halt the spread of it.

He had wanted her to be able to recognize it in the event she were targeted by its effects. Repeatedly – through instruction and testing – he forced her to be able to detect it in all its malignant forms. His aim was to equip her with knowledge so she could defend herself; her platoon or army; Camelot itself.

Uther's experience with it had been widely varied and spanned his lifetime; his stories at times seemed fantastical and unreal. She could hear his voice still – how he could describe events with unrushed deliberateness, how he recalled even the minutest details as if they were pictures etched indelibly in his mind, and how his tone lowered to a cold, unwavering vehemence that made her shiver. Geraint now gave the King his full due; Uther had been unerringly precise – right down to the miasma of confusion that came along with her rigor mortis of movement.

Now incapacitated, she concentrated, trying to regain even a fraction of her faculties. "Who are you?"

The man did not answer but withdrew two more steps, easily avoiding her struggle and with a hold of only one corner, gave her map a sharp yank. It unfolded in a snap. Holding both sides, he studied it closely, turning it this way and that, mimicking the angles with the position of his head.

"I live here." He said, answering her in his own time and dropping the map without refolding it. "I wondered if you would return."

He moved to the side and she gained a small advantage of seeing more than his slender outline. He did not seem to care that she had had a weapon – perhaps because it was still too heavy for her to use. He appeared to carry none of his own and – moreover – was not inclined to take any notice hers. His domain of magic made anything more redundant. His clothes were more refined than a peasant's but neither were they overtly rich. He bore the same pale skin and dark, wispy hair of Merlin; the same high cheekbones, and the same protruding ears. Perhaps it was just the angle of the light that had subdued his amber eyes and switched them to an eerie green luminescence.

The sensation of being trapped lifted slightly. Even before weapons, Geraint snatched the now pricelessly accurate map and took it back, clumsily refolding it and making new hasty creases before replacing the bulge in her pocket. Her arms had the awkward, uncoordinated sensation of having been asleep and now had pins and needles touching her nerves.

"I followed you for a while." He said as a bird landed overhead. His attention was drawn to the singing and he looked up to watch it intently. He whistled, mimicking its song, then fixed his emerald eyes on her, as if remembering she was there. "You are a girl. You dress like a soldier. Why?"

Geraint stared. "What?" She had her dagger held up – it still possessed an impossible weight. She clasped her second hand over her first to double her efforts. If he made a move, she wondered if she could defend herself.

He reached out and pinched the end of her dagger, pricking his finger on the sharpness. He pulled away and sucked on the blood, then his eyes flickered gold again and using his other hand, extended his first two fingers. She tried to resist the blast of energy but Geraint could not help but lower her wrists so her dagger was not in his direct line of attack. "Sharp. Be careful. That will hurt. You are a girl. You dress like a soldier. Very strange. Why?"

She had never encountered anyone who had ever discovered her secret. Geraint found herself remarkably unprepared to answer the question even though she had had this situation practiced in her mind. This did not play out as she had imagined. Not at all. It occurred to her to raise her dagger again but the idea left her in a wave of apathy. His gaze transfixed her and she lost the energy to follow through. His eyes glittered – half gold, half green. She recalled having asked him a question about something. What was it?

"Who is the man with the metal halo and the billowing red wings?"

"Halo? Red wings?" She frowned, then lifted her head with a possibility. "Uther?"

He shrugged with indifference at her suggestion, as if he did not care about the detail. "They want to kill him. He will be far from home. In a forest – surrounded by others like you. The one beside him is his young shadow. A crossbow. It will be painless." He sounded curious, interested in knowing more. He crouched down and asked her point blank. "Who is he – this Uther?"

Geraint shook her head, refusing. This was part of the magic – to disorient and redirect and lead one astray of the objective. She decided that she should be the one to ask questions and, if questions did not work, she would give orders.

"Name. Give me your name."

"Seth." Birds above took flight and he became distracted watching them take wing. While still looking upward at the sky, he added. "I live here."

"Tell me what you are."

His attention returned to her and he studied her intently, the eyes seeming to pulsate between green and yellow. "A man. You hide in man's disguise. You are not like me." He paused and tilted his head, as if listening to something she was not saying. "You want what you can't have." He sagged as if having taken on a burden. "So alone. So faithful. It makes me sad." He blinked and put one hand on his heart, taking hold of her wrist with the other. Contact with him sprung a well of unexpected emotion. She tried to pull away from him knowing that whatever spell he had cast had caused the unlocking of her innermost emotions. Grief and loneliness lifted to the surface like air bubbles through oil.

Uther's voice came back as an echo; reminding her that magic was a threat to anyone that encountered it. She knew she needed to break contact to stop this enchantment and tried to draw away from him. They had a tug of war for her wrists that she could not win. He was mesmerized by her and would not let go. He continued, as if he were skimming the pages of a book, picking out words and phrases that had the most meaning. "Family. They are all gone. Lost to you. You want it back. It was so nice then. Safe. Warm. This man in red – " He stopped abruptly and his eyes widened. He tilted his head to the side and said with subdued solemnity, as if he had read the last chapter and could not quite believe the ending. "He will … You are his …" Then a slight motion at the edge of the field caught his attention. He glanced to the side and a doe emerged. The animal was lit in a hazy white light and stood stock still, staring with bottomless brown eyes. "There you are. Where have you been?"

Against all her efforts to the contrary, his magic took sweeping hold of her. His promise of foresight had drawn her in and stimulated an overwhelming curiosity that she could not quell. It had been the promise of the future. Without having an explanation of how or why, she knew with absolute certainty that this man had the ability of prophesy. It had been one of the things Uther feared most. The future – he had always warned – was in the future. It would come soon enough. Who was to say what it would be? Up until the moment it happened, anything could change. Uther warned her not to be trapped by the seductive lure of divination and reminded her yet again that magic was intended to beguile and manipulate. Heed its tale and abandon free will. Yet here and now – with critical information so tantalizingly near – she could not refuse its power. He knew. This man of magic knew Uther's future. Hers. This magus knew what would happen and she surrendered to her desperation for knowledge. She could not let this opportunity pass. She dismissed the idea that prophecy was inevitable and wrapped herself in the illusion that knowing might help her alter the future if it revealed tragedy. This was another trap that Uther had warned about but she ignored it, thinking in her case it could be different. She knew it would be different. She would not let it be otherwise.

Geraint abandoned all her defences. She needed to know. "What about the man in red?" Geraint asked, trying to sustain his attention. "What will happen? What am I to him?"

The doe bowed its head and then flickered its ears as if listening to their conversation intently.

"I have to go." He said matter-of-factly, then – checking over his shoulder as if asking for a few more seconds, he reached out and took her hands in his gripping them tightly. He gasped and squeezed her hands harder until the bones in her hands began to hurt.

"They want to kill him. He will be far from home. In a forest – surrounded by others like you. And beside one who is like him. His young shadow. A crossbow." He pressed his lips together and, gazing at her with a protective fondness, his chin quivered. Bowing his head suddenly, he closed his eyes tightly and tears dripped over his lashes. He pulled her forward and she fell onto her knees. He stared at her intently; his eyes began to shift to amber. His touch became soothing, comforting – as if he were reassuring her about some secret vision he had. The longer he kept hold of her hands, the calmer she felt. His touch imbued her with a serenity that she equalled to a silent early dawn.

"It will be painless." He whispered, his eyes pulsing to a pure gold.

In the distance, the doe moved and he let go of her. Geraint tumbled forward to her stomach with the shock of the lost connection.

"Wait for me," he said, rising to his feet and pursuing the animal.

She tried to follow but he and the doe were not incapacitated as she was. Staggering to her feet, Geraint rushed forward trying to catch them. By the time she reached the doe's last position, they were gone. They left no trace … no bent grass, no broken twigs, no swath of dew lifted by clothing. They had disappeared into thin air.

Clearly, she understood what had transpired. This man of magic and powerful ability had forseen Uther's death. He predicted the location and knew the circumstances. He would be killed by an arrow through the heart … and in the presence of Arthur.

Uther had warned her about magic. It was evil and it would topple an empire if left unchallenged. Away from the influence of amber eyes, she knew that anyone could make up a story about the future. Despite all of Uther's warnings, the impassioned lessons and the explicit directions, Geraint believed that this man was different. He had known about her past and described it with disturbing accuracy. Regardless of the intent, Geraint knew he possessed real abilities in magic. As Uther so often told her – magic was behind many corrupt and wicked plots and deeds. Did this unknown man speak the truth? Or was it a well-placed, deliberate lie?

Geraint debated the veracity of his prediction as she resumed her journey. After endless deconstruction, she came to a simple conclusion. If it was a lie, she need not worry. Uther was safe. His son would continue to have a father, and Camelot their king. If it was the truth, Geraint determined that it must predict a distant future for she was certain that Uther was nowhere near a forest. Or his son.

And that meant everyone was perfectly safe.


	23. Chapter 23

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

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Chapter 23

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It had been the very middle of the night and Richard had been having the nicest of dreams. In it, he had been sharing a slice of warm pie with his best friend Samuel and just biting into a piece of crust when the dream was interrupted by the two guards pounding on their door. Richard had had nearly tumbled out of bed with the shock of sudden awakening. The guards' boisterous hollers and thumping had roused the entire household and it was his mother – finally – who let them in. The Royal Guards performed their duties with an economy of words and clarity of objective that was – if nothing else – fully aligned with the master they served. The King – they said - was leaving Camelot at dawn. He needed the company of the groomsman. With gradual understanding, Richard realized that he was that groomsman.

Up until the war, Richard – at fifteen - had been a stable hand and spent his days cleaning tack and mucking stalls for the best horses in the kingdom. Once the war had cleared Camelot of the majority of men – leaving just the very young and the very old, he found himself promoted to groomsman. The horses were easy to love; King Uther Pendragon spared no expense when it came to his stable. The King owned the most majestic animals in the land and Richard felt a sense of pride that he was entrusted with their care. His friends – of course – had made fun of him when he was a hand. It was an inglorious job to clean stables and they made a perpetual joke about his skill at shovelling manure. But now that he was Groomsman, they afforded him a modicum of respect. Samuel – in particular – had begun asking if there were any positions at the stable because he too had wanted a chance for advancement.

There were five candles on the table – all the ones that the family owned – lit and giving off as much light as possible so they could see. Richard stood in the centre of the room surrounded by the activity of his mother and his four younger siblings – two brothers, two sisters – who were each fetching, sorting, folding or packing. There were flicks of a hem as his sisters dusted off a cloak; a minor rivalry between his two brothers as they raced to see who would open the trunk. Their familiar voices were quick and hushed – as if the Guards had remained and were watching for dubious activity. Richard, with his father away at war and the defacto man of the house, let the movement whirl around him. His stillness may have appeared confident to his siblings who gave him sidelong glances of awe but the case was – in fact - the opposite. He felt rooted, frozen into the floor, unable to move for the enormity of the task that lay before him. The initial wave of terror had subsided and since that time, he had recovered enough to pull on his boots. It took him a while to realize that donning his cloak might be the next task in order.

The guards had said the King would be travelling for a few days in pursuit of information. Richard had no notion of what information could be so critical that the King himself would seek it out. When his youngest brother asked what could the King possibly want to know in such a hurry, Richard pulled himself to his full height and said – with as much wisdom as he could muster – that it was King's orders that it remain a secret. In truth, Richard's curiosity to know was tempered by the dread of actually knowing. He was sure the King knew a great many things that were necessary but of a burden so great it was preferable to remain in the dark. The business of the King was best left to the King himself. That Richard and his friends indulged in harmless gossip of the Castle and imagined all manner of regal omnipotence – comic and otherwise - did not mean that they were not all very respectful of the King and – in fact – they all understood with alarming clarity his power. Samuel's sister had been executed on suspicion of witchcraft. That Samuel was Richard's best friend permitted some trusted insight. His sister did have a minor talent for prophesy and a result of the terrible secret, she escaped and hid behind drinking too much ale too often. Public inebriation should have been her only crime but for a chance encounter with a stranger who she should not have trusted.

Another wave of nausea flushed over Richard at the thought. King Uther was … well … he was the _king_. His word was law; his every sentence a command. He had no tolerance of magic – and was near maniacal in his quest to eradicate it. Erring on the side of caution was a fair tactic. Yet there was humanity to the King and Richard and his friends and family believed him to be – by and large - a fair and just King with a genuine devotion to his people. Still, the King's definition of devoted did not mean that he did not posses a fierceness, a precision of direction or a strength of will that defied disobedience.

Richard felt another tightness in his chest knowing that he would be expected to serve the King alone – without the hundreds of other servants among whom Richard could blend. The expectations of the King would be centred upon him alone. All would be noticed. There was nowhere to hide. Working in the stable and glimpsing at the King at a safe and invisible distance from time to time was not the same thing as being his personal groomsman for an important trip during wartime.

Richard watched his two brothers pick through the contents of a trunk, arguing about whether or not the individual socks that they had found were a pair and – once decided on a match – held them up for their mother's inspection. She slipped her hand into each one and, using her index finger, determined the integrity of the toes.

His mother pushed them onto the next task. "Now give those to Richard and then get my basket from under the bed … there will be a fine handkerchief there that I've been saving … "

His oldest sister had emptied all the contents from a cedar chest before finally withdrawing a leather satchel. She then filled it with an assortment of items she felt worthwhile to carry. His mother reviewed the choices and removed some, then added others.

"Now, Richard." He blinked and focused. His mother stood in front of him, moistened her thumb with a lick then held his face with one hand and rubbed his cheek with the other.

"You speak only when spoken to. Pay attention. And mind your manners, do you hear? He is the King."

His mother had emphasized the word "king" and the sound tightened the hard knots in his guts. "Yes, Mother." He answered her and wished his mother could have given him words that did not instil such terror.

"Just in case." She insisted, sorting through her stack of handkerchiefs and selected the best three to toss in. "You will be his groomsman. No telling what you might need. He is the King, after all."

"Yes, mother." He was unable to give her more of an answer and wanted to ask her what he was supposed to do. What would it be like? Perhaps her advice had been the best possible. Stay silent unless spoken to. Pay attention to the needs of the King and serve him to the very best of your ability. His mother stood at the door, and was the last to hug him tightly. She then kissed him on the cheek and tenderly straightening his bangs. Folding his collar flat, she added, "If you see your father, tell him we are well and miss him."

"Of course." His father William was a member of the Second Platoon and was a favoured soldier of Geraint Wyndym.

"Godspeed."

He said goodbye and made his way towards the stable. The air was cold and the dew was heavy. The sky had shifted and he could just detect the darkest of blue emerge from the inky blackness. He moved along with haste, alternating between a quick walk and outright running, hoping the exercise would shake off the nerves of the unknown. His mother had given him an apple to eat and he gulped several big bites before his stomach protested at the unwanted food. He tossed the apple core away just as he entered the stables.

Richard found the stables filled with light and activity. Torches lined the stone walls and shadows rose and fell along the corridors. The smell of oil and smoke and straw and horse enveloped him, taking away the smell of apple. The guards and other younger boys surrounding two of the best horses. They had begun readying the horses and it was the first time that Richard had had someone else prepare a horse on his behalf. He felt a sudden sense of being late and looked around to see if the King had arrived before him. The atmosphere was easy, subdued and – not finding the King present – Richard relaxed momentarily. The relief was short-lived for a few moments later, there were even footfalls approaching and echoing along the corridor. The guards took up a smarter stance and their movements became crisp and deliberate.

Richard looked over his shoulder and watched the King draw near. He was crownless and did not wear the royal red robes but there could be no mistaking that he was the King of Camelot. He was flanked by guardsman and, as he gave orders, men alone or in pairs dropped away to do his bidding. He gave direction in that brusque, economical fashion he had that made Richard think that there was nothing that the King ever did by accident. Mistakes would not be expected from anyone and Richard knew that if errors did occur, they were not easily tolerated.

Arriving at the stalls, the King looked at him without blinking, taking the full measure of him. Richard withstood the inspection as heat rose to his cheeks. He felt his mouth go dry and shook with the slightest tremor. The King was taller than he had expected, broader in the shoulder and – for lack of a better description – possessed a body with the solidity of granite. Everything about the man; his eyes, his expression, his carriage – even the snap of his dark cloak – was hard and immovable. The King stood before him, tugging tight his left glove and Richard stared at how taut his broad knuckles fit and stretched the leather.

Richard blinked three times in succession. He could not remember how to breathe.

"What is your name?" The King asked the question with the same inflection as a statement; an order.

It was the hardest question Richard had ever had to answer. He inhaled suddenly, bracing himself for his very first direct exchange with the King of Camelot and when he spoke, no sound came out. Not even a squeak. He tried again, this time licking his lips. There was a noise but it was not distinguishable as a word. He tried a third time, putting all the power he had into saying name.

"Ri – Richard." He gasped weakly, then, hearing his mother's voice in his head on the topic of manners, added, "Your majesty."

The King took in the information and still regarded him with silence, as if there was some calculation he was doing based on the strength of the three words he had spoken.

"Your father is William." The King continued and, getting no confirmation or denial, added sharply, "Yes?"

Richard jumped. He had not known the King had asked him a second question and had been kept waiting for an answer. The King was proving difficult to understand because of his unconventional lack of inflection.

"Yes." Richard for good measure then quickly added another "Your Majesty."

"A good man, your father." And with that judgement, the conversation ceased and the King turned his attention to the readiness of his horse. He began inspecting saddle and reins – finding and testing buckles and straps for security with such natural familiarity he had not needed to look. As he continued, he inquired about the health and fitness of the horse, all the while keeping the horse settled and calm.

"Sire? There you are." A voice called from the beyond the stalls. It was Gaius – the Royal Physician – carrying a full satchel over his shoulder. It banged and bounced off his hip as the man hurried along.

"Gaius." The King said, shifting his attention to the newest arrival.

"Here. I've gathered everything I could." Gaius pulled back the flap of his bag and let the King peer inside. He reached in and moved items back and forth while the physician listed off the contents. "There are bandages and compresses. Threaded needles of two gauges. Antiseptic salves and powerful sleeping draught that could knock out a horse. There are a few crushed herbs for teas. I have labelled them with directions for use."

"Thank you, Gaius." The King handed Richard the bag to carry and then mounted his steed in a smooth, effortless motion. His ease reminded Richard again that the King was a veteran soldier and horseman. The King – he knew - was exceedingly capable and would be studying Richard closely and having the highest expectations. Richard made another promise to himself to be the very best he could be.

"Godspeed, Sire." The physician said as they kicked the horses to start their journey.

"Oh. Gaius?" The King pulled up.

"Yes, Sire?"

"See to it that Camelot is still standing when I get back."

What that, they made their way without ceremony or witness along the cobble-stoned streets and through the castle gates. As they passed into the open lands of Camelot, Richard turned his eyes to the east. The razor edge of sun began splitting open the day and as the orange ripped across the land, Richard realized that the King had desired to leave at dawn and this had been precisely when he had left. Richard stared at the broad shoulders of the King and wondered what it must be like to have one's will obeyed without exception.

They rode at a good pace and while Richard knew that the army had been advancing for weeks, he also knew that he and the King – as two solitary men on horseback - could easily cover the distance in a much shorter time. They had not the burden of two platoons to move. They could go fast, by the most direct route and because each village had sent a scout to the next, they were always welcome, and all their needs for food, water and stables met. It meant they travelled quickly, in comfort and with almost no inconvenience to the King. Richard could not have imagined travelling in such comfort and style. To be in the company of the King – even to have his seconds – was a luxury that astounded Richard. The King was benevolent, gracious and his subjects always offering the very best that they had – no matter how modest. The King received their hospitality with respect and thanks. In one or two of the villages, the King knew a few of the elders – greeted them as old friends and, through the conversation, Richard discovered they had fought side by side in wars gone by.

As the trip passed, Richard grew accustomed to the King's briefly worded observations and teachings. The King was not given to conversation – merely direction and orders. He was not unkind, however and did make sure that Richard had similar benefits to his own of food and sleep. The King remained gracious to his hosts – thanking them for food and preparations, able to speak with interest at dinner about their life. That the King was otherwise silent while travelling was – Richard thought – an indication of the King's general interest in his subjects.

Richard was smart enough to take direction, be silent unless spoken too and – above all – pay attention to the King so he could anticipate what he wanted next. It was not particularly difficult. The King was consumed with one thing and one thing only – going in his predetermined forward location at the fastest possible speed. Why this was so remained a mystery to Richard. All he needed to know was intention. This meant he rose earlier to have the horses ready for the King to ride out immediately after a brief breakfast. He carried the food for lunch and was ready to ride hard, long distances for most of the day.

The King knew where he was going and had control of the map that guided them. He kept it in his breast pocket, consulting it once in the morning and once after their midday break. Periodically, however, the King would slow his horse to a halt and make a special reference to the map. He would study intently; matching map lines to terrain as it appeared before him. On three separate occasions, the King muttered unintelligible words as he repocket the map.

"We will continue regardless." The King would announce but he would have a dark air about him and his lips would press together in displeasure. The profound silence had lasted for a great while and had Richard any sense of fearlessness, he might have asked but the King's expression defied any such inquiry.

Then, one day during a particularly hard ride across an extended landscape of fields, the King bolted ahead. Richard – following some distance behind slowed his own horse and watched as the King raced forward at a full gallop. His regal silhouette was framed by the low grey clouds that had threatened since the morning. Wind billowed out his dark robe and Richard thought if the King had any more speed he might well rise up into the sky like a bird of prey. All at once, the King turned his horse hard to the left and rode onward for a good distance. Then suddenly, he halted. He repeated the move, turning the horse and taking another galloping survey at a different angle. Without warning he reigned in the horse with a mighty upward heave. After the third time, he returned to his original position and stood in the middle of the field. He sat with one hand holding the reins and the other forming a fist and perched on his hip. The King and his mount were motionless except for the swishing of the horse's tail. Another gust of wind caught his robes and exposed a shoulder of silver chainmail covering his shoulders. There was more stillness.

For a fleeting moment, it occurred to Richard that the King might be lost. It seemed unlikely since he had been unerring to this point. Perhaps the King had spied a small animal, or threat of another kind and had pursued it with vigour.

The King spurred the horse forward, riding further afield then stopped. He lifted his arms and straightened them out in an orienting fashion. He shifted the angle once, twice. Then, as Richard drew to his side, the King flashed a heavy-lidded scowl in his direction.

"There should be a river here." The King said in a way that made Richard feel unexpectedly and irrationally frightened.

Richard considered the King. Glowering, the King repeated himself, his voice holding the same fury Richard had heard him use during public addresses in defiance of magic. It was threatening, absolute. Consequences would ensue.

"There should be …" He said, with renewed emphasis on the individual words. "A river … here."

Richard knew perfectly well – as he was certain the King himself did – there was not a river within sight. For his part, Richard had not the first notion what this meant; only that not having it had made the King very, very angry.


	24. Chapter 24

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

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Chapter 24

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"See to it that Camelot is still standing when I get back."

These words had echoed unanswered in the stables.

Three days later, Gaius could still hear Uther's voice – sardonic, threatening and – because Gaius had so vociferously resisted the proposal – the thinnest hinting note of bemusement that he had even attempted to argue. Through the beginning, middle and end of their discourse – there had really been no debate. Uther had listened to indulge; not to deliberate. The Pendragon had decided it and so it would be – despite all arguments or logical posits to the contrary.

Their friendship had had the benefit of decades of time, tests and trust. They shared – however - no illusions of uninterrupted harmony. He and Uther had had their infrequent but full share of sharply worded, loud disagreements. Most of the sharpness and loud disagreement had come from Uther; most of the words from Gaius. It was because of this history, not despite it that Uther trusted no other man with his single most prized possession after his son – that was Camelot itself.

Therefore, without any ado, Uther made two sweeping pronouncements at court; first that he would be taking his leave effective dawn the next day and second, while he was away – that Gaius would fully act in his stead and have the same final authority over all matters and decide wholly on behalf of the King.

Early morning the following day, after handing Uther a full-to-brimming bag of medical supplies and receiving explicit direction regarding the continued standing of Camelot, Gaius made his way through the halls of the castle – first to complete hasty rounds and then onward to court and all the while, doors opened for him. Men and women bowed and nodded and moved aside to allow him unfettered passage.

Yet, despite all this fawning attention, there was an underlying sensation that he was being watched. As he walked along the halls, he felt curiously like a target. No one had actually threatened him but Gaius had become aware of the fact that he did not carry a weapon; and anyone who did - if so inclined - could easily dispatch him without effort. It was a time of war, and without the King to maintain the balance of power – no matter how strong his decree had been – Gaius felt the uneasy shifting of alliances. He was not afraid or defenceless; but unarmed, neither was he at ease.

As Gaius sat at court that first day, he watched an out-of-breath guard appear for duty. Gaius was considerably discomfited by having to sit in Uther's place; both the literal and figurative. He found several new invectives for his King and wished that he were here to take the brunt of them. Not that Gaius would likely have spoken them openly but his narrow-lidded glare would have communicated volumes to the King and Uther – he was certain – would have taken particular pleasure in his complete uneasiness. Gaius was – as he had insisted all along – a physician, not a solider. Certainly not a monarch. He sat where he did – wholeheartedly reluctant – in duty and in friendship for a king who had a son in mortal peril.

Gaius shifted in Uther's habitual seat – rolled his hips from one side to the other - and found another temporary position of comfort. He was not at all used to being so – so – unduly confined. As a doctor, he had the freedom of the castle, the upper and lower cities, and the countryside beyond. While he kept to his chambers to see patients, he also visited the sick in their homes and had never been obliged to stay in one place. Frequently it had been his choice to remain days in his chambers in pursuit of science, but it had never been his requirement or his inescapable obligation. What he did not have now was the freedom to chose. Gaius had known very well the proceedings of court all happened within court and Uther remained bound to the location, but knowing it as an idea and having to attend and bear it in his place were two entirely different universes. One was a pleasant concept for someone else to pursue; the other was self-inflicted purgatory.

All things though – including this catastrophic eternity called court – came to an end. With the final audience, Gaius fled into the hallway and – stopped short, startled by the self-same tardy guard who had suddenly sprung into readiness and followed him outside the door. As Gaius moved, the guard trailed close behind in steps well-matched to his own. Gaius travelled along the hall and down a flight of stairs and still the guard pursued. To test him, Gaius stopped momentarily. The guard mirrored him. Was this a threat? All at once Gaius felt again the absence of a weapon. The hallway had an eerie emptiness to it and he started to walk with a quickened step that the guard had no difficulty equalling. Knowing he could not outrun the man, Gaius turned on his heel and challenged him outright.

"Why are you following me?"

The guard rocked backwards in surprise. "I am under orders of the King."

"Oh? And what orders would they be?" Gaius viewed him with suspicion and – with a growing apprehension - briefly scanned the hallway for a witness that might double as assistance if needed.

The guard equally scanned the hallway up and down for onlookers, "The King wishes you to have a ready defence against … threats."

"That is …" Gaius swallowed the words 'a lie' and replaced them with ones with more bravado. He had no reason to trust this man. "Ridiculous. I order you to stop."

"He mentioned you might not be pleased." The guard appeared uncomfortable at the admission.

"He was correct. I am not. Stop following me."

"I have my orders." He licked his lips and added nervously challenging Gaius' authority. "He said … he said if you resisted I was to remind you that … ah … you are a … "His voice trailed off.

"I am a what?"

"A physician, not a soldier and that … you … he said you have no choice." The guard looked down, clearly torn between obeying an absent monarch with one idea and a present regent who had the exact opposite opinion.

It was most unpleasant to meet his own most singular and unwavering argument in such a fashion. Gaius considered the man and the words. The guard appeared sincere. How many times had he used the expression with Uther? Countless, he was certain. In his mind's eye, he could see Uther setting up this anticipated exchange and arming the guard in advance with Gaius' own words to give the King ultimate victory over the situation. The direction was precisely what Uther would say. That Uther had engineered both getting his way and a method for letting Gaius know he could trust the guard was a testament to Uther's capacity to command and communicate across time and distance. Damn him.

"Are you going to follow me around all day?"

"The King was quite specific." The guard brightened, seeing that there might be a turning point in his fortunes of duty. "He does not wish you to come to any harm. You are to be … escorted … until he returns."

"Complete and utter nonsense." Gaius mumbled, mildly surprised at his suddenly sense of security. It occurred to him that Uther had a depth of loyalty he had not expected. He felt protected and buoyed by this demonstration of both friendship and his relative importance to Uther. "Alright, boy. If you must. Come along, then. Do you have a name?"

That first day seemed an eternity ago. Uther's specific instructions had taken almost no time to circulate. Treat him as King; he speaks for Uther Pendragon in all matters. With that single direction, Gaius became the centre of the Camelot universe.

There was not a thing that Gaius had asked for that he did not receive. There was not a thing he had said that someone did not read into and put into action both the obvious and not so obvious anticipated next steps. If he mentioned in passing a beef stew, it was served for dinner. If he observed with fondness a particular herb, a basket arrived the next day at court. He could not talk to anyone without the conversation morphing into something more – veiled requests, direction, orders – every blessed thing he said had listeners layering subtext and demands. Innuendo and implication was read into the most innocuous of commentary. An observation about cool morning air was not – in fact - a hint for a lap blanket and a higher fire.

Overnight, Camelot had become a lonely, cerebral world for Gaius. Every word suddenly necessitated review; every comment evaluated for possible misinterpretation. It slowed everything down and gave even the simplest exchanges a burden that exhausted him. Where had all the ease in conversation gone? Where had the lightness of being and joy of life been buried? At one point, Gaius simply stopped speaking for he felt keenly all the effort being exerted both by him and on his behalf. Then the thought struck him – he had been at this for only days. How did Uther stand it? And what stark solitude this was. It was grievous. The liberties Uther enjoyed as king? Gaius knew they could never make up for this rapacious segregation. Uther stood alone; he remained ever solitary and singular in a crowded room and until now, Gaius had never understood the chronic isolation he endured every single day.

As Gaius became – not accustomed to but resigned – to the ever-presence of a personal guard, he also acclimatized himself to the routine of court. The single most surprising aspect of sitting where he now did was that the view was so completely different from the King's throne. He had served Uther for too many years to count and never once had ever considered what the world looked like from Uther's literal point of view.

This new perspective started with being able to see the full expanse of court. He could see everything – all angles. It was one of the few positions with minimal blind spots. Furthermore, he could observe all people coming and going. The fleet of guards were positioned just so that in the event he had need of them, they could observe the command, seize prisoners and control the entrances. Even the candles were positioned for most favourably lighting the front.

Best of all, he could observe the approach of all and have time to contemplate the audiences. This long walk was of particular benefit when he could anticipate the request and could use the time to formulate a response. It gave him time to consider who was approaching, their walk and attitude and consider what might be their chief complaint. This was the case when Sir Ellis approached.

Sir Ellis – Gaius had thought to himself -here was a man that had the unfortunate and likely unaware status of being of particular interest to the King. Uther had given Gaius two private pieces of advice before his departure.

The first was to keep his friends close and his enemies closer. The second was – Gaius was careful to paraphrase Uther's blunt analysis - that Ellis and Hugh might not be the former. That Uther had mentioned these two men with a very specific warning had significance. Uther's final words could not have been more clear. He had a way of speaking – when he wanted to communicate something particular – where his voice dropped and every syllable was articulated in an evenly spaced, unhurried fashion. He did not do it often, or without cause but when he did, it never failed to give Gaius a shiver of goose bumps up his spine.

"Do not let them out of your sight."

Gaius was keeping close watch on the pair as they conferred off to the side, slightly obscured by a pillar and whispered to each other. Four times in succession Ellis had looked over his shoulder, noticed that he had been observing them and then turned away, only to make another furtive glance after what might be determined enough time for an observer to lose interest. That Gaius remained observant did not seem to deter their conversation and neither did it force them into a more private stance. He felt suddenly as if this was a show of defiance; as if this openly private conversation was none of his business and they were daring him to interrupt or force his way into knowing what they were talking about. It did occur to Gaius to ask them to address the court if they had something to say but the thought left him. Gaius was not alone at court but neither had he any stalwart allies or trusted friends at present. A fight might not be the best solution if he were supposed to keep these two men within his sights. Perhaps better they remain unfettered and believing they could do as they pleased. Gaius took a physician's stance on the matter and simply monitored the situation with the pair.

Then – as court had ended and Gaius rose towards the doors, Hugh fell away and Sir Ellis approached on his own.

"Gaius," Ellis had addressed him informally and had fallen into step beside him – without warning – and so close that their shoulders almost touched. Ellis let his hand drop to the hilt of his sword as he walked. With Philip the Guard as a constant companion, Gaius had maintained his policy of carrying no weapons yet the idea flitted through his mind that he was not as close to the court soldiers as he would have liked. The sudden movement and closing in garnered the instant attention of both Philip and the guards who flanked the doors. Their attention to middle-space evaporated and they focused on the action playing out before them. Through the corner of his eye, Gaius watched them all shift to a stance of readiness – all reading both the action and each other for signals. Gaius had not been overtly threatened but he was aware that he had become a target. This constant vigilance was another insight into Uther's life that he had not until now properly understood.

"Yes, Ellis."

"I have some news of interest for the court."

"Oh?" Gaius split his attention between Ellis and the guards. He wondered if he should remain here or move closer - within their easier reach. It was not a difficult choice. Gaius moved forward and Ellis matched him.

"Yes. There has been an unfortunate skirmish in one of the outlying villages. I understand that there have been terrible injuries."

"Why did you not say anything during court?"

"I understand the need for discretion, Gaius. In these …" he leaned in closer and was forced to stop as Gaius had ceased walking. He dropped his voice to finish the sentence, "… uncertain times."

"Uncertain?" Gaius lifted an eyebrow. The guards remained attentive and that gave him some measure of confidence to continue despite Ellis wiggling his fingers around the sword hilt. "All is well, is it not?"

"My dear, Gaius." He continued, with the tone taken when one speaks to a child. "Our beloved King has taken his sudden leave of court and I cannot imagine why. He has left you …" There was a pause and he made a show of picking just the right words, "…with the burden of Camelot. I cannot imagine how difficult this must be for you. You … will have to do something about Tor Village. They are desperate for help and require your immediate attention."

"Hmm." Gaius took in the information without commitment. Did Ellis consider him a complete idiot? Was it best, perhaps, to do nothing to change this opinion?

"Gaius?" Ellis tilted his head to the side, in well-feigned amazement. "You do not seem to think this of much urgency. This is clearly a threat to Camelot itself."

"You will forgive me." Gaius said, suddenly resuming his walk towards the door and leaving Ellis behind. "I am late for an appointment with a patient. I will see to the situation regarding Tor Village shortly. I do thank you for this information, Ellis. It has been most timely." Gaius added a few more words, for effect, "Of course, I will see to the issue personally."

The expression Ellis wore shifted from serious to sudden smiling lightness. "Of course. Of course. Please, Gaius. I do apologize for disturbing you. Uther was right to leave his responsibilities to such a capable man as yourself. Your personal attention is precisely what is most appropriate."

That he had given Ellis any reason to be pleased was enough for Gaius to understand that Gaius did not adequately understand the machinations surrounding him. It was then that Gaius determined that what he needed was – as Uther had suggested - a friend in court. With renewed appreciation of Uther's advice, Gaius went in search of Geoffrey of Monmouth in the Libraries of Camelot.

"Sir?" Philip stopped when he failed to turn in to his chambers. "You said you had an appointment. Are we not going to …?"

"No." Gaius said, continuing along with an uninterrupted pace. "We are not." Philip made up the space with a burst of double time.

"We are going to the Library."

Gaius wove through the endless shelves of books and found Geoffrey of Monmouth at the very back, buried behind three roughly stacked piles of open books. Geoffrey looked up briefly to acknowledge them but did not break his focused search. Fighting with the books for attention, Gaius grew increasingly curt. Finally, he simply blurt out his request.

"I need you at court."

"Gaius. I am flattered," He looked up for a moment but then dropped his head, resuming his place held by his index finger, "I am a librarian, not a courtier …"

"Geoffrey. We have been friends these many years. I am not asking without some understanding of your reluctance, or of my personal need of your assistance."

"I am certain you have things well in hand, Gaius. You always were far more comfortable in court than I. Leave me to my books."

"I need to have a second set of …" Gaius looked over his shoulder at Philip who stood a discrete distance behind. "I need to have at court someone I can trust implicitly – who can ask discrete questions, gather information, and most of all – help me make some sense of it."

"I am afraid I have spent too long among the dusty covers here to be of any service."

"I'm not asking, you Geoffrey! I'm telling …" Gaius cut himself short. The temper had startled him. It would have been exactly what Uther would have said had he been met with such resistance. Gaius gathered his thoughts in a moment of silence. "Geoffrey. I am afraid I do need your help. There are threats that I do not properly understand and your eyes and ears would be of tremendous benefit. You are …" Gaius could hear Uther's voice overtop his own, "the only man I can trust. We have been friends since boys. I am asking you as a personal favour. Please, Geoffrey."

"Very well, Gaius." He shut up the volume in front of him. A plume of dust rose that Geoffrey did not appear to see. "I can tell you, though, this isn't going to be pleasant …"

That much, Gaius already knew.


	25. Chapter 25

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

Sorry for the delay … see for what kept me preoccupied …

* * *

Chapter 25

* * *

Arthur had arrived at the Renaud Valley late in the day and was mildly disappointed that Geraint had not been waiting for them. He had been hopeful that Geraint had been kept waiting because Arthur had an intense desire to know for sure what had been the results of Geraint's intelligence gathering. So certain he was of Geraint's early arrival was Arthur that he circled the encampment area twice on horseback searching for signs of the missing man. On Arthur's second round, he knew further searching would not summon him and he ceased.

Arthur dismounted and – as he had all day – favoured his right arm. As he landed, the jarring motion radiated from his elbow down his forearm and set off a temporary numbness that spread to his wrist out to the outer three fingers. Dropping his hand and letting his arm go limp, he flexed his fingers and did not get the feeling back quickly. He did what he could to hide the pain and hastily glanced around, relieved to find that he had gone unnoticed.

There had been enough to do in the camp and it was easy to shroud his pain in activity and necessity of leadership. It was simple enough to assume his usual stance with his left hand tucked under his arm and the right crossed over. More and more frequently, he knew he was using his right to cradle his elbow where he could surreptitiously massage the ache in his arm. That he was highly mobile throughout the camp and expected only to observe, not participate further helped him mask what he did not wish to reveal. Yet the injury worried him. He knew if it came to a fight, he was at a disadvantage. That position of weakness was unfamiliar to him and preoccupied him in moments when his mind was not occupied with the fullness of the present.

The second day at the Renaud Valley Arthur awoke by believing he had slept on his side and that it was this that had forced his arm asleep. He shook his hand to free the numbness. It was a long time wearing off. Arthur convinced himself that what he needed was something restorative and started off with a mug of hot liquid handed to him by Merlin. He took it in his right and then, too soon for him to set the mug aside, Merlin – in a rush to handle a sudden influx of men into the breakfast queue - handed him a bowl that he was forced to take in his right. His fingers were hardly able to grasp the edge of the bowl and he watched as the vessel quivered. Believing he was unobserved, Arthur set his mug aside and took a seat on an upturned stump. He balanced the bowl on his knee and set the mug on the ground. As he ate, he noticed that the top of his palm had turned a deep purple.

"How is it?" Merlin surveyed Arthur. He had an initial impulse to be defensive about his injury and then realized that Merlin had been talking about breakfast.

"Fine." He said, without elaborating. "Get me my gloves." He took a large spoonful of food as a sign that the conversation had concluded.

They had been in a forward advance for long enough that the day of complete rest had been restorative. The respite initially superseded any feeling of idleness.

The day after that, however, a restlessness had begin to take over. The men were strong, able and – by the time they had reached the Valley – well-habituated to being on the constant move. With the sudden halt to proceedings, they had found more than their fair share of mischief and by noon, Arthur had begun to give direction to his troops – some to exercise horses, others to hunt for dinner, still others to clean, count and sharpen – whatever needed cleaning, counting and sharpening. Anyone not otherwise occupied was given the task of repairing tents, armour and horse tack.

The morning of the third day, there was still no sign of Geraint. Without anything else to do, Arthur directed his soldiers into a repetition of the day previous. Keeping the men busy became paramount.

Arthur continued to eat in silence as a light rain began to fall. He could not manage the cup and the bowl so he sat and persisted, feeling water droplets marry at the ends of his long bangs and drip occasionally into his bowl of food.

And what of Geraint? He had taken the forward position to gather intelligence and even now, Arthur did not quite know how he had been able to win the right to go. It occurred to Arthur that he had been tricked. He was certain of it, in fact. But how or why Geraint had accomplished it Arthur could not work out. He did not want to believe that Geraint had done it to spare Arthur the risk but there was some piece of him that suspected it. Geraint possessed the same lack of haphazardness that governed his father's choices. Had that card – that infamous jack of clubs - been genuinely random? The scene played over in his mind and he could not fathom how Geraint had guessed the right card. It had been random but not. A surprise but not. The more Arthur thought of it, the more he came to believe that Geraint had found a way to spare Arthur the danger and onerous effort of the unknown. He could list several motives; all of them an annoyance to Arthur. As it always was – it was the difference between someone who considered themselves expendable and he – Arthur – who was the crown prince of Camelot – spared to fulfill his destiny. Geraint and his father had a close relationship and it was not beyond his father to insist on sparing his own son at the cost of another. But would his father have asked so favoured a one? All at once, Arthur had an insight into the true feelings his father had for him – Arthur. Perhaps they two were destined never to speak words of respect or love. Perhaps it was to Arthur simply to understand his father's actions and hear what the King of Camelot could not say. All at once, he had a desire to see his father and pay him respect.

His father at that moment – Arthur knew - was warm and dry and well-fed in Camelot. He slept in his own bed with fine linen and soft mattress and no fleas and hot, properly cooked food and dry, clean clothes. He had a pang of jealously for his father who had the luxury of sending troops on his behalf. Arthur knew that his father had had his day on the battlefield so he did not entirely begrudge the comforts he knew his father was at that instant enjoying. It was just that Arthur's arm ached and Arthur was tired, and cold and wet and without information. He knew not what was happening either in Camelot nor with Geraint. Arthur had an overwhelming sense of being cut off from the action and this did not suit him.

Arthur lowered his hip over the fallen log and sat. He moved gingerly and rested both elbows on his knees and warmed both hands with his cup. Arthur cradled his arm, knowing that it hurt far more than it should. Flexing his hand, he shook off the aching pain. From a distance, he watched Merlin set down his dish towel, set it aside and approach. Merlin had that expression on his face that was a mildly discomfiting mix of innocence and determination. He had a way about him – when he had become fixated on some idea – that belied resistance. There was something Merlin had on his mind and there was a quiet resolve to him that Arthur had never could successfully dislodge by reason or temper.

Merlin lowered himself to his haunches and folded a leg under him. He rested his forearm on his remaining bended knee. He looked up at Arthur in earnest and put on a mild, innocuous smile.

"Merlin." He addressed him with the suspicion he felt. He stared at the man with intensity, in that ferocious glare that could stop other men in their tracks. It seemed to have limited effect on Merlin, perhaps a sign of the man's inability to understand peril.

"Arthur." His servant mirrored names and viewed him in silence, as if he were debating some ponderous idea. It was unnerving.

Arthur refused at first to speak and instead waited for a continuation of the conversation that did not materialize. All he received was a steady, unblinking – not a stare – it was more invasive than a stare – a wordless assessment – that began to make him far more uneasy than he would have liked.

"What is it, Merlin?"

"Let me see your arm." He said it with the softest of tones, a statement spoken with a Celtic lilt that made it sound like music, an irresistible enchantment that could not be denied. Without preamble and right to the heart of the matter, Merlin did not ask.

"I've told you before, it's perfectly fine." Arthur tried to stare him down but failed. The eyes were too intense and Arthur could not hide.

Merlin sighed and settled his chin on his wrist, as if he were contemplating an onerous, difficult problem. He gave off the impression of being clearly unconvinced. Moreover he seemed to be utterly undeterred by Arthur's answer.

"You've been favouring it for days." He fixed those eyes on him and Arthur felt oddly like they could see through him, or in him … able to see inside the inner workings of his mind. The lilt came out again, coaxing. He put out one hand, almost but not touching the inside of Arthur's forearm – an intimate gesture - as if he were approaching an unpredictable animal. "Let me see."

"No." Arthur insisted, "I am fine."

Merlin allowed him to retreat but not without a final assessment. "You aren't fine, Arthur."


	26. Chapter 26

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

* * *

Chapter 26

* * *

Uther stared upward and through the smallest of cracks in the wall, could see pinpricks of light from the full moon. He was awake. Again. Still.

He could tell by the deadness of the quiet it was before dawn. The night creatures had gone to bed. The harbingers of dawn had not yet awoken. The world possessed a death-like stillness. Uther took a solitary breath and the sound filled the room. He exhaled noiselessly, wanting to restore the peace.

Sitting up, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed and pressed his fingers into his eyes and then circled his sockets, and widened the circular motion once more and ended with his cheeks rubbed deeply into his palms. It was too early. Yet it was late enough that Uther felt the passage of time waiting to see his son as a relentless pressure squeezing his chest until he could not breathe. Once more, he marshalled his capacity to hold back of panic and of grief - knowing that every hour, every minute apart prolonged the distance between he and his beloved son. Uther knew on the battlefield – time was the master of life and death. As a rational man refused to look directly into the sun, Uther refused to look directly at the truth and acknowledge that he may already be too late. Again, as an antidote to the possibility, Uther demanded to his god that his son remain whole.

He sat unmoving. His desire for forward progress precluded sleep. Out here, there was only one objective: to find his son and see him restored to health or to a grave.

In a nearby make shift bed, Richard shifted, rolled and settled. Uther resisted the temptation to rouse him and get underway. Uther had driven them hard and he knew that Richard was in severe want of sleep and rest. The boy was young yet and had not the King's stamina. He also did not have a son in mortal peril driving him onward. Uther should have needed more rest than he had taken but he had demons that drove him beyond it. Sleep and rest were for those who were not kings, not soldiers.

He was acutely aware that this boy had performed his duties with sufficient attention and lack of fault that Uther had only twice resorted to a display of temper to get his point across. The lad had acquitted himself well and that was enough to win him the unknown extra few minutes of sleep that Uther granted him. It gave Uther a few minutes of freedom and privacy with his innermost thoughts.

Uther sighed. He let the few moments ease out and turned over the two sentences that had delivered him here – once again dissecting the words for some clue that would help.

"_Geraint has deserted us and we have not seen him for nigh on two weeks. I despair of seeing either man return to Camelot alive."_

Of the two messages, this was the harder one to believe. Arthur's news was about an event. But Geraint's? This was about a man's character and Uther simply did not believe that Geraint would have deserted the army. Not Uther's army. Not any army.

Could Geraint have been the traitor that had infected Camelot? Had he been the source or the engine behind the letters? Or had he been the oblique warning system?

Uther knew Geraint well – perhaps as well as he knew any man. He knew what pleased him, what made stop and ponder and what captivated his imagination. He knew Geraint's silences and how this man could turn a question over to change its answer. He knew what Geraint was capable of – in terms of strategy and horsemanship and military skill. Used for good, he was an important asset to Camelot. Used for evil, he could have inspired havoc. Yet the letter had warned of a sudden departure. Geraint – at no time – ever displayed the slightest cowardice. It was simply not in the man's nature – not even when the odds were stacked against him.

Uther reflected and recalled an unplanned swordfight between them. It had been instigated by Uther to prove a point and teach Geraint a lesson – the merit of a withdrawal when truly outmatched. They had been on the training grounds and Uther vastly superior to Geraint in height and strength and reach, where every blow Uther inflicted struck Geraint with such force that Uther was certain that Geraint would give up. The man did not. Uther kept at it, blow after blow, waiting for the moment where Geraint would look up and Uther would be able to see surrender in his eyes. That moment never came.

The more Uther attacked him, the fiercer Geraint's resistance – as if the man had hit a wellspring and was drawing – if not power – then endurance. He continued the assault with nothing but Geraint's weakening sword blocks as a defence. Strike after strike he made and Uther found himself thrashing down his sword, as if he were whipping a dog. The unrelenting exertion eventually began to wear on them both and, after innumerable blows Uther paused to catch his breath. Then – with such unexpected swiftness - Geraint had made his single move. He had dropped down low, then sprung up and forward, arriving well inside Uther's reach and came up with a solitary blow over his heart – from a dirk, not his sword. Geraint had made it a tap – so there had been no wound. But both Geraint and Uther knew that with enough force, it would have been a killing blow.

The sudden success stopped Uther. Geraint followed. They parted, breathless and each formulated what they had learned about the other. Their battle had been without witness and it was at that moment Uther nodded in satisfaction – knowing that this man was of rare and admirable calibre. Geraint would never quit. He would never desert. The man had flaws – blind spots as all humans did – but surrendering against the odds was not one of them.

No. Geraint would not have deserted the army. Perhaps there was some reason why he had needed to leave temporarily. Perhaps – Uther had the memory of his yesterday return to him – Geraint had gone ahead in search of the documented but missing river. Perhaps Geraint had done what he ordered him not to do – to treat Arthur like the Crown Prince. If Arthur was well and truly in peril, perhaps Geraint had gone in search of care for his son.

Arthur. This was Uther's future, his kingdom. He was everything that Uther had ever sacrificed and fought for. Uther loved his son as much as any father had for his flesh and blood. When Arthur was a child and Uther away on a campaign, his son was the sustaining thought and when Uther returned, Arthur was the most important welcome that the King enjoyed. Yet somewhere in the past as Arthur abandoned the childish innocence and grew into his destiny of Crown Prince, the welcomes became more formal until one day, the open-armed embraces at the end of a long hallway run ceased and were replaced by subdued "welcome home, Father". It was as it had to be and yet, Uther mourned for those lost days.

His son did not know it, did not understand it but one day, Uther told himself, Arthur would realize all that it meant to be King and have a son of his own. Then he would understand.

"_Our prince has been severely wounded and we wake daily wondering if he has survived the night."_

Uther had memorized the lines. There were only a few phrases and it was nothing to commit them to permanent reference. Fear had etched their image on Uther sand the vision appeared both with and without summoning. The words drove him onward when they should have rested. The sentences kept him wide-eyed starting at the ceiling when he should have been asleep. The ideas haunted him in daylight and at night.

What had happened? A battle? An accident? Not knowing drove Uther to near madness with the endless imaginings and rememberings of his own experiences on the battlefield. Voices and sounds and images reached from the distant past into Uther's dreams and then, forced their way to his waking thoughts, layering his history onto his present.

On the battleground, Uther had born witness to hundreds of men dying – his enemies and his allies and his own beloved soldiers. His enemies were not his concern but he felt the deaths of his allies and soldiers keenly. The lucky ones succumbed to their wounds quickly. The less fortunate ones suffered – some terribly – and made such sounds of agony or had suffered gruesome, unbearable wounds. These injuries caused such a tormented lingering life that – on three occasions, as the leader of the Army and responsible for all who were under him – Uther had killed his own soldier to relive them of a protracted suffering that could only ever end in death. Even now, he could close his eyes and be transported to those pivotal events.

Each time, his soldiers had begged him to end their life and their suffering. As King, it was his right and his rule that could confer them this final freedom. They had become the living dead and their every breath was a torture of pain and wretchedness. Each time he had been asked, Uther had refused – bleary-eyed with his own selfish grief and loss and nearly crushed by the weight of the responsibility. Each time, he was forced again to discern what kind of King was he? Was he a merciful King? How could he permit the prolonging of such inhuman suffering? How could he let a man endure terminal agony? For what purpose? For whose benefit?

"I have served you faithfully and honourably. There is no hope for me. Let me die at your hand." Each time, it was a variation on those words. They reminded him of their loyal servitude, acknowledged that there was no other end possible but death and a final request for their King show mercy and free them from the slavery of pain.

Each time, he forced his gathered knights to retreat to the periphery and – being begged anew for salvation and release – Uther stood over a dying friend and wept. In battle, killing the enemy was one thing. The execution of his own men by his own hand was God's way of ridding him of his brashness towards conflict and emblazoned the grave severity of war upon him. War was not trivial. Men sacrificed their lives so others could live. Peace was priceless. Then, staring into the eyes of his mortally wounded soldier, Uther unsheathed his sword, breathed a few words of sacrament and ended it.

Each time, as his sword burst open the heart of his soldier, his own heart split in two and flesh fell away, leaving stone to cover an ache that he could never mend. It was the kiln of battle that had steeled his spine and hardened his soul. His duty forced him to the brink of mortality and peer into the abyss of death.

Uther rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head. The memories washed over him and then ebbed away, leaving another calcified layer of protection to ease the dull ache in his heart. The ghosts shrieked and called out a name. Please God, he thought, let it not be Arthur.

"Boy." Uther said in the darkness. "Get up. It is time to leave."


	27. Chapter 27

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

* * *

Chapter 27

* * *

It was, in retrospect, a set up.

Arthur realized much later that Merlin had deliberately left him until last to serve and - to Arthur's credit and dedication to his men - he allowed them to eat breakfast first. Then Merlin had taken a mug and a bowl and headed straight for him. It was - Arthur thought - a gesture of loyalty. He had considered this Merlin's way of providing special service to the Crown Prince. From time to time, Merlin could demonstrate that he was both understanding and capable of deference. Had Arthur known Merlin's true intent, he would have - well - he would have refused to stand there like an idiot and be subjugated to his servant's literally underhanded ploy.

Merlin had handed him the bowl and Arthur took it in his good hand and then, without any warning, Merlin reached down and took hold of Arthur's injured hand. Wearing an open expression of innocence, Merlin shoved the mug into his palm and forced his fingers to close around the vessel. It was filled with warm, not hot, liquid but it was heavy and awkward and Merlin's actions caught him by surprise. He had no time to adjust. Where there was no numbness, there was pain. His fingers could not sustain the form and keeping hold of the mug was impossible. Arthur had no strength for it and certainly no reflexes to do anything but let the mug fall to the ground with a thud.

"Merlin!" Arthur said. "What do you think you're doing?"

With a confidence that was an impossibility for any other servant in Camelot, Merlin looked him without apology and disregarded his question entirely. "I knew it." He was self-satisfied and smug.

"Knew what?!" Arthur scowled darkly without effect.

"Come on, Arthur." Merlin asked, flicking his fingers into Arthur's palm as a precursor to taking his hand, coaxing himself ever closer. "Let me see."

Arthur pulled away his arm. "You'll do no such thing. Let me have my breakfast in peace. And go get me another mug - this one - " He kicked it aside with his toe "Is both dirty and empty."

Merlin did not move but looked up at him with a slightly sideways, corner of the eye way. It was – Arthur knew – a sign of impending disobedience. "I'm sorry. I can't do that. I – I really need to see your arm." He said it with that infuriating deliberateness that made it sound as if the only reason why they were arguing was Arthur's refusal to comply. Any other servant would have been thrown in the stocks. With that - Merlin's bravery spilled over and he took hold of Arthur's wrist and squeezed.

"Merlin!" He tried to escape the deliberately inflicted pain. "That hurts!"

"I know. I know it must. You've favoured it for days. Let me have a look at it." The brown eyes seemed to hypnotize him and – Arthur felt a part of him give way. It was a relief to have his secret revealed and maybe Merlin could do something about it. "Please."

And with that surrender - Merlin got his way. They retreated to a quiet part of the camp and Merlin - with this diminishing supply of ointments and bandages - redressed Arthur's wounds. Merlin was indeed correct. He was not at all ok. The wound had festered and was weeping.

"Arthur. This is serious."

"It is a scratch, Merlin. Watch what you are doing. That is open flesh you are playing with. _**My**_ open flesh."

"Yes. Open flesh. I can see how you would term it just a scratch."

As Merlin was finishing off his rebandaging, Arthur could hear something familiar in the distance. He looked up.

"Shhh."

"What is it?"

Arthur cocked his head to hear better. The timber of the voice. It was so familiar. He knew it as well as his own. Yet. That was ... impossible.

"Can't be ..." he said, struggling to stand as Merlin kept him in place with a tug on his arm.

Merlin tucked in the ends of the bandage neatly then looked over his shoulder in the direction Arthur was focused on. "What?"

There was a rise in sound at camp. It was a sudden, hasty commotion that Arthur could not understand. His men were scrambling, falling into line and crisply standing at attention. Then, from beyond the clutch of soldiers that lingered nearby there emerged an outline.

Arthur knew that frame anywhere. He scrambled to his feet – mirroring the sudden haste and need to stand as the soldiers before him. "Father?" He called out. "What are you doing he- ? "

"Arthur!" His father swung around, his red cape swirling around and rushed forward. Arthur was too stunned to move to avoid his father's advance. He stood, unprepared for his father who closed the distance between them and swept him in his arms. "Oh my son. Arthur." His father was silent for several moments. The hug tightened and pressed him tightly against the bulk of his father until Arthur could not breath. His arms flailed slightly and he could feel his father's fingers dig into his flesh as if utterly unwilling to let him go. In his ear, he heard his father sigh words that were for him alone, "Thank God. You are well."

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"A letter. Said you were gravely injured and … might not … last …"

Arthur felt his Father bury his face in his shoulder and he heard a stifled gasp – as if his Father were suppressing tears. All of a sudden, Arthur was equally and inexplicably overwhelmed. His eyes grew blurry and he mirrored this unexpected and profound emotion. His father. Had come all this way. To see _him_.

"Father?"

"Let me look at you." Arthur was pushed away and held at arms' length. Had Arthur ever any thought that his father did not love him or care, it was all gone in that instant. His father's face had been tormented in those seconds before set eyes on Arthur and recognized him. He must have come all this way ... for him.

"Arthur." His father clapped his shoulders, held them fast and shook him as if to reassure himself what he saw was real. "Arthur. My son." He repeated himself and then gasp, choking down more emotion. His relief was palpable. It occurred to Arthur that his father was almost giddy with relief as he was drawn to his father's wide chest for yet another embrace. His father's arms held him tightly and Arthur was uncomfortable at the length. When they parted, his father had watery eyes.

"I am fine, Father." Arthur confirmed, then as an afterthought and feeling suddenly like a young boy overwhelmed with the joy of a parent's undivided attention and desperate to keep it, he added. "I did take an arrow to my arm." He held up his forearm for inspection. His father took close note inspecting it with a delicateness that Arthur had not imagined possible. His father, with the application of pressure was able to find the very edges of his wound and seemed to intuit just the right places to hit and stop. When their eyes met, he knew that his Father knew just how badly he was hurt and yet let him be for the moment.

"Gaius has a salve that will help with the infection." Then his father scanned the area and let out a deep, restorative sigh. His mind was active and his attention moving on. "Where is Geraint?"

"He has ... "Arthur dropped his voice to avoid eavesdropping and ushered his father to the fringes of the camp. " ... taken a brief leave. We needed forward reconnaissance of the enemy. We … agreed to let him go."

"Agreed?" The expression on his father's face indicated he did not entirely believe the story as told.

Arthur felt a warmth of being in the presence of a man who knew him so well that he knew the precise word of his story to question. Arthur smiled and looked out in the same direction as his father. A storm was coming in and clouds were scuttling low over the hills. Then a momentary break and they found themselves in complete sunlight. Arthur was in his father's shadow, safe and protected by this man. And loved. Arthur began a smile that started at his heart and explained.

"Well … agreed eventually."

"Hmm." His father mirrored his quixotic smile and said nothing more.

Ahead, there was a sudden movement and both of them looked up to the horizon, honing in on the same spot, A moment later, Geraint appeared, running towards them as fast as his legs could carry him.

"Geraint?" His father said. "What the devil - ?"

"My liege!" Geraint emerged, careening down hill, running hard and had a strange terrified expression on his face, as if he were trying to outrun death.


	28. Chapter 28

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

* * *

Chapter 28

* * *

It had been one of those grey days that made Geraint think she was living in a cloud. It had been overcast since dawn but the weather made little difference to her progress; she continued as efficiently as ever. As that day wore on, the fog had lifted slowly and the final witch fingers stripped upwards in dissipating tendrils.

Geraint had been closing in on camp, and was standing at the top of the last ridge when she noticed it on the ground. It was a small thing – a rag now - that had once been a fine cloth. At the corner, a crest was sewn. Geraint knelt, smoothed out the material and oriented it face up. Her fingers brushed over the dirty silk colours. She knew the crest. Knew it well. Indeed. She had fought along side him for the course of this campaign.

She knelt long enough that her racing mind connected the dots and the picture fell and settled into place as solidly as a descending portcullis. Sir Keith. He was Crossbow. She and Arthur had been correct. There was a traitor in their midst. All at once, the action began to make sense - the twice-unsettled horses, the distractions, the too-late entries into events that had just past. It had been Sir Keith all along. Aided and abetted by Sir Ellis.

Below and off in the distance, a motion caught her eye. She glanced up and saw Arthur's familiar outline emerge from the fringes first. He stood beside another whose outline remained blocked from her view by a tree. Geraint stood. Her view was still obscured. She pocketed the cloth and continued her way forward shifting her perspective on the unknown outline.

A few paces later, she looked again to identify the person. Her eyes followed the silhouette of the soldier and for a moment, her mind would not allow her access to the truth and kept her blind to the identity. A name came to mind. It was impossible. She studied the form closely and then she recognized him. It was Uther. He stood beside his son, his red cloak swathed around him in regal form. Why was he not safe in Camelot? Why was he not somewhere else in his kingdom? Why here? Why now? How had he come to be here on the battlefield, mortally exposed to the fates?

"_They want to kill him. He will be far from home. In a forest – surrounded by others like you. And beside one who is like him. His young shadow. A crossbow."_

The words repeated in hollow echo. Her blood slowed until all she could hear was a single pulse at her ears – as if this primal sign of life could counteract the foreshadowing of death. Geraint stared at the tableau, powerless to keep the reality from mirroring the phantoms of the future. Irrationally, she put all her faith in the clouds that made a shadow impossible. If the sun did not shine, it would not be now; it would be some other time and place. Make this moment years away, she argued, trying to negotiate a different reality. And then – with sickening brightness - the sky sliced open and the sun shone down on them, basking father and son in golden haloes of light.

Uther looked up with a squint and took a single step forward in the suddenly broken sunshine. By that solitary movement, Arthur became obscured by the shadow his father cast. It was exactly as the prophesy had predicted. The King and his shadow. The King will fall.

Fire mixed with ice in Geraint's veins. Terror swept over her with a force that staggered her.

No.

Stricken with an immobilizing fear, Geraint braced her knees momentarily to keep standing. Then she took one, then two steps forward to pull herself out of her mental haze. Downhill momentum favoured her and she picked up speed as she started to run forward.

No. Not her King.

Not now. Not yet.

The prophecy could not be true. It could not be allowed to run its course. She would not see magic win. Not against Uther. She ran faster, tripping over herself as gravity and decline forced her speed and she became unable to stay completely upright.

Uther was smiling, at his ease – pleased to be the company of his soldiers and his son. She could hear the timber of his voice – confident, full of life and vitality. Then she heard Arthur's calm tones fill in behind his – higher, more youthful but as a harmonious complement to his father's.

"My liege!" He did not hear her at first. Her voice garnered no notice. No reaction. No escape to safety. With all her might, she warned him anew.

"My liege!"

"Geraint? What the devil –?" Uther protested as she ran into him at full tilt, wanting the force of her body to move him out of harms way.

"My liege!" She yelled, bursting forward and - with all that she had to defend him - threw herself at him. She landed against his chest and the impact stunned her. Uther was immovable, rooted and easily able to withstand her force. Instead, he remained as he always was – strong and steadfast. She could summon no amount of force to shift him against his will.

She continued to struggle, gasping for air and unable to speak but frantic to move him aside – out of the way to safety. Each grabbed the forearms of the other and they tousled. Geraint was clearly outmatched for strength. Out of breath, she could not say more than his title. Then – from some place beyond the fringe, she heard it. It was the sound of death; the triggering of a crossbow – the lightest twang and then the hiss of an arrow flying to its aim. It shattered the air and the echo bled her ears.

No.

It cannot be.

"Geraint. What on earth is the mat - ?" His voice was easy, mildly distracted by her unusual behaviour.

She turned her back on him and stepped forward, scanning the air for the missile. Geraint waited for the arrow to show itself; to breathe through the branches, split leaves and leave their tatters to flutter to the ground. She would easily spot it and then track its path and – in some way – alter its lethal course. She continued to wait – eternities passed with each blink, with each heart beat. Time slowed until it almost stopped.

Where had the arrow gone? She started to frown. Had it landed? She was certain a crossbow had been triggered. She had heard it take flight. She knew it had travelled towards its ultimate mark of her King. Her beloved King.

"Geraint!" Uther's voice startled her. It was suddenly loud and urgent and full of fear. All at once he was responsive – just as she needed him to be. Now he would move and he would be saved. She turned and could only manage a half step before the exertion of her run made her legs give way. Uther wrapped his arms around her shoulders and she felt herself sink backwards in a dead weight and encumbered by gravity.

Then she looked down and saw what Uther had seen. It was an arrow sticking out of her chest. For a moment, she did not understand. She had not heard it land. She had not felt it pierce her body. And then – from deep within her mind – she heard that voice of prophesy comforting her across time.

All at once, she felt herself falling back then swiftly rising. She was in her King's arms and knew she would die there. He had been spared and that was all that mattered. She stared deeply into his blue eyes – hard blue eyes that she had beheld a thousand times but were now washed clear by fear and panic. What remained was love. She would be safe here – safe in the care of a man who was Uther – in the care of a man who was her King. She loved him in a thousand ways. Alone. Faithfully. He would never know. It did not matter. He was alive. She gasped. The effort to breath seared her lungs and knew that she was dead.

"Geraint." He said her name and the depth of his emotion startled her. All at once, she did not want to leave him. Not yet. She closed her eyes and letting her head fall against his chest, she inhaled – comforted by the scent of his clothing. It was as it had always been – of musk, spices and smoke – she was enveloped by the absolute power of a King. Her heart began to ache. She would miss him; miss his voice, the way he thought, the sound of his laughter, his sense of duty and honour. She would miss the way they could communicate with each other without words, their mutual respect and – most of all – she would miss how he had filled her mind with ideas in a way that made her feel as if he had been unwilling to share them with anyone else but her. She would have given anything to spare him … and so she had.

With the knowledge that he would live on, Geraint tried to ignore the pain. She tried to ease the struggle and it was difficult. The will to live was primal and she was trained to fight all enemies, even death. Yet better it should be her battle than Uther's. In the grand scheme of the world, she meant nothing. Uther was King and her life for his was more than a fair trade. She let that thought settle and it helped her to let go. She knew she had changed the future. Uther would live instead.

"Geraint!" The suffering in the voice forced open her eyes. Uther stared at her. His face was rigid, cold and hard but his eyes revealed the fire of a warrior's defiance.

"You will not die." He said it with conviction but she did not believe him. She had spent too many hours with him to be fooled by words she believed were spoken purely for his own benefit. She was one of his soldiers and he did not want one of his soldiers to die. All at once, another wave of reality washed over her and she faced anew the idea she was going to die. Uther's fear made her suddenly afraid. She gasped and felt tears begin to well in her eyes. She did not want to die and held onto Uther as if he might possess a power to keep her alive. Save me. I do not want to go.

The voice in her head echoed again and eased her rising panic.

It will be painless.


	29. Chapter 29

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

* * *

Chapter 29

* * *

Uther had stood beside his son at the fringes of camp and – after the torment of imagining him dead or dying - revelled in finding him largely unharmed. His son stood tall, proud, hale and hearty. A breeze blew the fringes of his blond bangs and revealed the light of life glistening in his eyes. Apart from weight lost from the campaign and a slightly wounded arm, Arthur was well. Uther's relief of the burden he had born since reading the letter so many days ago in Camelot was palpable. A weight of infinite mass had been lifted. His son lived. Uther inhaled and savoured the lightness and freedom with the knowledge. Once again, Uther felt restored and invincible.

He and his son had stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of camp as Arthur sketched out for him a summary of their battles and advancement. He and Geraint had shared suspicions. Arthur outlined their unknown attacker they had called Crossbow. Yet – for all the concerns, Uther was at ease here among his soldiers and he felt the old battle instincts pulse again, invigorating him and giving him the contentment of loved familiarity.

Then, a voice up ahead drew their attention. It had been Geraint – careening towards them as if he had been chased by demons. For some inexplicable reason – perhaps the residual effects of being overwrought with thoughts of his son – Uther watched Geraint's approach with mild amusement. In comparison to losing his son, everything else had become less urgent.

Uther had not moved aside because he believed Geraint would stop and when Geraint ran into him at full tilt, Uther grunted at the impact but did not alter his position. Geraint had never had the capacity to take him off balance. Not Geraint. Nor any man.

What ensued was not much of a struggle. Geraint had thrown himself forward again, gripped Uther's forearms and tried to shift him and, unintelligibly, attempted to say something. He had made no sense except to communicate a sense of panic, and an inclination for Uther to move. But move where? Why? Uther saw nothing ominous ahead. They had danced in that awkward push-me-pull-you way and Uther felt as if Geraint were intending to move him into or out of position. Then Uther heard the arrow - that haunting sound of hissing air that had ended the lives of so many of his beloved men. Uther felt a whiff of air and heard the sudden deceleration of a landing arrow – piercing flesh and bone. He had heard it countless times before – and now – as it always did – it sickened him. It was the gut-wrenching sound of a life gone and now – as he always did – he retreated to his military reflexes. Enervated that he was under attack, he used all his senses to draw in as much information as possible. What had happened? What would happen next? He listened for the approach of an enemy or his missiles. Ducking, he gripped the hilt of his sword and he took a step backwards – beginning a temporary retreat to safety and to reassess.

Uther had been the target before; he would be again. Never did he get used to the sensation of having his life distilled to a single heartbeat yet it did not deter his immediate response to it. He braced for the sensation of impact. When none arrived, he looked to his son.

It had been over in an instant. Uther determined instinctively where the arrow had come from and he knew where the arrow had landed almost before it stopped its flight. Geraint was angled slightly away from him but in perfect alignment. Geraint. Not Geraint, he thought. He was not simply another soldier. Geraint was the leader of the Second Platoon. Not Geraint, he insisted. Not the one soldier above all that had become his … favoured. Not Geraint.

"Where ...?!" His son called out.

Uther and Geraint bent forward almost in unison – one to fall, one to catch.

"Father? Father?!" Arthur's hands gripped his shoulders and yanked him upwards to see. His son had been afraid that the arrow had assassinated the King.

Uther stood, lifting his beloved and fallen soldier in his arms.

"Geraint." His father said, shifting his attention to the man in his arms. Protruding from his chest – a single arrow from a crossbow. Without hesitating, he began his retreat. "Reinforce our flanks. Get guards to the forward position. Comb the terrain. I will have this assassin killed!"

As Uther faded back to the centre of camp, his son took over with a call to arms and marshalled both defences and a forward attack party. Men began running. Swords were drawn. Weapons and ammunition were uncovered. Horses were mounted in haste and the heavy sound of hoof-falls drummed the earth.

Merlin materialized as an apparition and stumbled forward, guiding Uther towards a roughly fashioned table that, as Merlin flung aside bowls and a basin of water, Uther realized was their crudely designed kitchen table. No matter. Uther had been forced to work under worse circumstances.

"There." Merlin swept away the last bowl and stepped aside with a bounce of uncontrollable nervous energy. "What do you need?"

"Get me bandages. Richard … has supplies. From Gaius."

Gently, Uther sat Geraint on the table and swung his feet up. He cradled the wounded man and eased him to rest against his chest. The man's head lolled into the natural space at Uther's shoulder. Geraint's breathing was coarse and laboured – he made no noise except to gasp for air. Geraint had not died instantly and that inspired an expectation – a wilfulness - in Uther. He was a veteran soldier. He had inflicted, observed and treated wounds of infinite variety in his lifetime. Lives had been saved and taken by his hands and Uther knew what he needed to do. This one wound would not be fatal, he convinced himself. It had missed the heart and with that luck, Uther had greedy willed for more. This one soldier was important. This one life – he demanded to powers greater than his – would live.

"Geraint." Uther whispered to the man his solitary command. "You will not die."

Without ceremony, Uther stripped away his gloves and, through the blood, found the exit of the arrow. He dug in with his fingers for enough grip and coaxed the arrow through Geraint an inch further. The man groaned in agony and flailed to stop him.

"It will not last." Uther promised him and wrapped his arm tighter to seize Geraint's ability to move. Then, with enough space, Uther worked his fingers into the seeping gore to grip the protruding end of the arrow. Applying pressure, he snapped off the end. Placing one finger over the exit wound, Uther lay Geraint flat out on the table and stared into eyes filled with terror. Uther could read the message well. They were two who trusted each other in a way Uther could not explain – as if they could see into each other's minds and find harmony of thought. He knew Geraint knew what was next and was petrified.

Uther paused, incapable of words. Instead, he gripped Geraint's shoulder and squeezed – communicating with touch what was otherwise impossible. He realized he was as much bracing himself for what was next as Geraint.

Steeled for the task, Uther grabbed the front of the arrow – at the base where arrow ended and flesh began and began removing the arrow in a slow twisting motion. Uther did not look away but faced the gruesome task without flinching. Geraint was still alive – still conscious. The sound of withdrawal was inhuman; Geraint's suffering unhearable and haunting.

Once the arrow as removed, Uther needed to expose the wound. He withdrew his knife and gathered the hem of Geraint's tunic in his hand. Another wave of terror swept over the injured man and he began to fight, to grab Uther's wrists and prevent him from cutting away the material.

"Geraint." Uther soothed him. "Let me." His words had no effect and – frustrated – Uther resorted to wedging one wrist in a gap in the wood slats that formed the tabletop. Then other, he stuffed under the small of Geraint's back and used both Geraint's body weight and his own position to trap him into place. Then he continued, slicing Geraint's tunic up the middle. The knife was sharp and the material gave way without effort. Finished, Uther put the knife aside and exposed his chest. Instead of flesh, he discovered blood-soaked bindings that Uther also cut away with ease. At last, he opened up the material and exposed Geraint's chest.

"Father?" His son's voice came up from behind. Uther hardly heard it. What lay before him had rendered him speechless – immobile – it was incomprehensible. This was - ? Was this a - ? Impossible. Uther could not look away from the physical evidence before him. It was - . Geraint was …

No. It was an illusion. Then he touched the flesh. It was warm and supple and smooth and suddenly, Uther knew it was no illusion. The horror in Geraint's eyes told him everything. The secret was exposed. Uther had been betrayed. Completely. Utterly. The contradiction allowed him one last hope.

Roaring, he threw back Geraint's tunic in fury. "No!"

Uther used his hands and - leaving streaks of blood - groped his way down, past the gaping wound and molested Geraint's groin, using his fingers to claw at the dying man's flesh. In a violent attempt to prove what he did not want to believe, Uther yanked and ripped apart the waistband of Geraint's trousers to expose him.

Uther had no further escape from the truth. Geraint was a woman. She had used all her guiles to broker a trust with him to gain access to the very heart of Camelot and use it against him. She had lied. She had deceived. She had manipulated. The arrow he had just cast aside had been intended for Uther all along. And Geraint? Geraint had been trying to position him in its path. To kill him.

Uther unsheathed his sword. He stood over her; angry beyond fury, fury beyond comprehension.

"Father! What are you doing?!" Arthur's voice rose to shrill shock and disbelief. His son grabbed his arm to prevent further abuses. Single-minded in purpose, Uther shook off his son's grip, whipping his arm out then up. Arthur stumbled backwards.

"That!" Uther spun on his heel to face his son. The red cloak swirled and ended with a cracking snap.

"That …" He pointed his gloved hand at the body lying on the table. That foreign unknown thing that he had trusted – with his thoughts, with his son, with his army … "That … is a WOMAN! There is our traitor!"

Uther gripped the hilt of his sword tightly and turned once more to tower over the wounded soldier. This impostor – this harbinger of ills to Camelot would die. Now. By his own hand. He coldly watched as her eyes revealed her understanding of his purpose. She would die – in fear, and knowing that she had failed to wreak the havoc that she had obviously so carefully planned.

"You will die." He lifted his sword above her heart.

"Father! NO!"


	30. Chapter 30

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

* * *

Chapter 30

* * *

"That!" His father spun in place with the violence of a dervish. He pointed, his arm fully outstretched and rigid, then with a burst of movement, he emphasized the evidence with a snap of his wrist. Energy radiated from him like summer heat lightening. Arthur had never seen such anger in his father. Instinctively, he took a step back to give himself clearance from whatever was to follow.

"That is a _woman_! A traitor!"

Arthur looked beyond his father to Geraint who had feebly lifted her head to speak. Arthur stared at Geraint's open tunic and took in the idea that he was a she. A she? He had always known that there was _something_ about Geraint. That it was this particular secret surprised him; shocked him into speechless gaping, but nothing more. As the idea took hold, Arthur could open his mind and see beyond it. Geraint had gained his respect in the hardest way possible - on the battlefield. He – she – had fought with honour and passion and intelligence and loyalty. Arthur trusted Geraint – man or woman, then and now – with information, with a platoon of soldiers, and side by side during the heat of combat – with his own very life. Geraint had earned all that which Arthur gave him and nothing now would or could erode it.

Without ceremony, his father unsheathed his sword and once more towered over the wounded soldier.

"Father! NO!" With a glancing attack on his arm, Arthur redirected his father's blow away from Geraint. His father has missed this once but he would not miss again; his intention would not be thwarted. Arthur panicked, searching for a way to spare Geraint.

In a momentary burst of insight, it occurred to Arthur that the best way to stop a dragon from attacking was to give it something else to attack. As his father began to lift his sword once more, Arthur braced himself and prepared to become that distraction. He opened and closed both his fists to ready himself and shook off the pain that radiated up his forearm. He vowed that his own injury would not weaken his resolve nor stop him from what he had to do; Geraint's life was at stake.

Steeling himself for the anticipated reaction, he inhaled deeply and rushed forward, slamming his palms squarely in the face of the golden stitched dragon that cloaked his father's back. An ominous thud ensued. It had been like running into an oak. Pain radiated up Arthur's arm and he felt the agony of a broken bone. Tears sprung to his eyes and he gasped at the searing pain. Yet – it had been worth it. There was a frozen moment as he watched his father absorb the hit and recover. Stillness. Gathering fury. Arthur knew he had his father's attention. His father went once more to his sword with a deliberate slowness, flagrantly challenging Arthur to try it again. Arthur rocked back on his foot and, gritted his teeth to distract himself from the pain, he ran at him again.

"Stop it!" Arthur ordered, lifting his rage to be equal to his father's. Arthur slammed into him again – striking the same spot and watched his father's head snap back. "STOP IT!" He repeated himself even louder; from anger and as a way to vocalize the crippling pain in his arm.

His father had not expected the second blow and took two involuntary steps forward. Again, he did not turn to face Arthur but he did not need to see his father's face to know the expression it wore. There was an eerie cessation of movement, then his father turned and lunged for him, sword swinging in warning. Ready for it, Arthur retreated – springing backwards, staying just out of reach to frustrate him and lead his father away. From his periphery, Arthur watched Merlin sprint towards the table and lean over Geraint's body. Fleet-footed, Arthur continued his backward travels, avoiding his father furious at his brazen assault until they were out of eye and earshot of Geraint.

"What do you think you are doing?!" Arthur started the inevitable without preamble. His father still held his sword as a threat but Arthur knew he had no immediate murderous intents for his son. Still, Arthur proceeded with care, knowing that position could change without notice.

"That … " His father pointed beyond the trees, "Is our traitor! She tried to have me killed! All this time, she has been conspiring the downfall of Camelot. I will have her executed for treason. Immediately!"

"Father. That is the best soldier we have in this army! You can't let her die!"

"Listen to you! Since when did you become a supporter of Geraint Wyndym? Has she beguiled you too? She has very nearly meant the end of Camelot and my kingdom!"

"I don't believe it."

"You are wilfully ignoring the facts. You saw what happened! She is a traitor. How do you explain her disguise?!"

"I … I don't pretend to know why or how. But I DO know that we have been successful because of her, not despite her!" Arthur filled the last with a crescendo of volume. "She is not the enemy!"

"She was the one who suggested the surveillance. You said so yourself."

"She was the one who noticed the maps were wrong !" Arthur yelled back.

"That's because you were not paying attention and she had to point it out for you!"

"You know as well as I do, the maps were designed to mislead. If she were a traitor, she would have let me miss them entirely. But she was the one to point it out! Would a traitor do that?!"

"She tried to push me into harm's way. She knew the arrow was coming. She tried to make sure it hit its mark!" His father paused, and then emphasized. "Me!"

"She knew where the arrow was coming from but she was trying to push you out of the way, not towards it." Arthur growled. "I was there! I saw it!"

"You see what you want to see!"

"Father! She stood in front of you! So you would be spared!"

Then, in a second moment of inspiration, Arthur stopped shouting. He stood still for several moments and spoke with a subdued voice. "Father. I have fought along side Geraint for these past many days. Never once have I doubted that she was anything but forthright and honest. Her loyalty to you and I – and Camelot – is beyond question. Know simply this, Father. I trust her. I trust her with my life. I believe she stood in front of you so you would be spared." He paused and then concluded. "Because of Geraint, Camelot still has her King."

It took a very long moment of silence while his father mulled over what he had said. Arthur faced his King and father unflinching and truthfully. On faith, Arthur believed in his father's ability to – eventually – see reason. Arthur did not know what finally made his father understand but at the ensuing silence, Arthur recognized that he had finally made his father understand. Geraint was not an enemy.

Then all of a sudden, his father whispered in a haunting quiet. "What have I done?"


	31. Chapter 31

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

* * *

Chapter 31

* * *

All at once, Merlin had known.

The ideas had arrived inside his mind, fully formed and clear and it overwhelmed him like a wave crashing down. For several moments, Merlin could only put his hands to his knees and gasp for air and try to shake off the shock. The first wave of it had come from Geraint. Pure energy in the form of emotion. Sacrifice. Adoration. Selflessness. Truth dawned. Geraint was a woman. Then, as the arrow had pierced her and she fell into Uther's arms, a second wave equal in intensity – came from Uther. It slammed Merlin like a force of nature as a single, focused, powerful but human will - trying vainly to reverse time – to use all his mortal life force to push back seconds trying to eradicate what he had witnessed. Tormented emotions that had been denied and buried and crushed into non-existence rose to the surface like a geyser. Merlin looked up gaping and realized – Uther did not know.

As Uther lifted her into his arms, Merlin staggered forward and guided him towards a roughly fashioned table. Merlin flung aside bowls and a basin of water, clearing the detritus of a meal interrupted and abandoned by the unexpected arrival of the King of Camelot.

"There." Merlin swept away the last bowl and stepped aside with a bounce of uncontrollable nervous energy. "What do you need?"

"Get me bandages. Richard … has supplies. From Gaius."

Merlin had backed away, unable to take his eyes off Uther as he cradled Geraint in his arms – irreconcilably beloved and shrouded in his aura of power – and then as he set her down gently, using his gloved hand at her neck to keep her head still. Geraint would be safe. At that moment, there was no more perfect care that could be given. So Merlin left in search of Gaius' bag and – just as Richard had handed him the leather satchel, Merlin felt another stunning wave of emotion hit him. Uther knew. He had discovered Geraint was a woman. The impact propelled Merlin back, running and stumbling over roots, and he forced his shaking knees to work.

As he approached, he had heard their voices rise in anger. Anger. Merlin had almost forgotten how fiercely they could war when they were in opposition. Then as they retreated to tear away at each other, Merlin returned, filling the void left by Arthur and the King. Merlin followed behind and stood at Geraint's bedside. She was still conscious but her eyes were half-closed. Blood continued to pour from the gash. Evidence of her wounds and gender were fully exposed. Without any impulse to stare, he covered her ravaged body – pulling up the waist of her trousers and folding to the centre both sides of her tunic to restore her dignity.

He had Gaius' bag of supplies in hand – it was heavy, full to brimming and evidence of wise foresight. Merlin had a confidence that the unseen contents would be exactly what was needed. He pushed Uther's dirk and gloves to the side and made a space for the satchel.

"Geraint." He said and realized his voice sounded as weak and unsteady as his legs. "You are going to be fine."

"I am dead." She whispered, refusing his comfort and gasping for air. Her eyes were watery and the blood continued to ooze out – now blooming into the front folds of her tunic. Struggling momentarily to sit up, she failed and let her bound arms go weak. "I have failed my King."

Merlin peered into her eyes, his soul pierced by her despair. She mouthed the words once and then again, with volume. "I have failed."

"You saved his life."

Reaching up, he dislodged her wrist from between the slats and then freed the other that had been tucked under her back. Freedom and privacy restored, Merlin watched as she struggled to put a hand in her pocket.

She was panting, white and shivering. "Not enough. I will be … executed …"

"Don't talk like that." He could not take his eyes off hers and was digging out of the bag items identified by feel alone. They were locked in a gaze and Merlin felt like he could see into her spirit and see images of her waning life reflected in her eyes. The torment mesmerized him.

"Here." She pressed her bloody hand into his and gave him a swath of cloth. Merlin looked at it and recognized the crest.

"That is Crossbow." She stopped to catch her breath, then indicated with a squeeze of her fingers at his wrist – weak but urgent. "Tell Arthur … retreat. Go home. Trap ahead. Vast army … waits …"

The effort was excessive and she had to close her eyes and focus on breathing. It was shallow and laboured and she opened her mouth trying to fill her lungs with air. Merlin stared at the suffering and wished there was some comfort he could provide. It took him moments to realize that he was not powerless and had bandages and could care for her.

"Merlin ..."

"Yes?" He had started unwrapping a bandage and began finding her open wound and put pressure on it.

She tried to push him away but it lacked strength. "Nothing you can do..."

"Yes, there is." Merlin insisted.

"Let me die. I … have betrayed the King … he will execute ... me … "

"Don't." Merlin interrupted her, almost shouting. He was angry – angry that Geraint should be killed. Angry that Uther should want her dead – that he had refused to see what she was and all that she had been. Angry at injustice and sublime sacrifice and the utter waste of war. "Don't. Uther did not mean it. "

Merlin had been so focused on Geraint that when the soft noise arose from behind, it startled him. It was Sir Keith. Merlin crushed the handkerchief in his hand to hid it and felt the family crest burn an imprint in his palm. How many times had Merlin served this man food? Drink? Ensured that he – along with the other Knights – enjoyed some small measure of comfort? All that time – Merlin had been securing Crossbow's well-being. How many had this man killed? Twenty? Arthur had been wounded by this traitor. And at Merlin's side - one more nearly dead by his arrows. Merlin narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

"Sir Keith." Merlin paused to swallow the bubbling rage. Blocking the knight's view, he turned his body, and used his body as a shield for Geraint.

"Merlin." Sir Keith said with eerie calm. "Arthur is calling for you."

"Really?" Merlin cocked his head and heard nothing.

"Yes. He is with the King. Beyond the fringe. He is in need of you."

"Well. I should go to him, then, shouldn't I?" Merlin said.

"That would be wise. Arthur is quite a demanding Prince, isn't he?" His hand settled on the hilt of his sword. In another time and place, it might have been an unconscious move stemming from habit.

"He has his moments." Merlin agreed but did not move. He clutched his fist around the handkerchief even tighter. His heart pounded as he realized his predicament. He had no weapon of his own except magic. Splitting his mind into several pieces, Merlin tried to determine if there would be witnesses, if Sir Kieth intended to kill, if Arthur were close at hand. What noises did he hear? Who were they? Were they coming or going? As Sir Keith advanced, Merlin took another instinctive step backward.

"You can leave. I will take care of Geraint.

Time. Merlin thought. Time. He needed time for these moments to lengthen so he could think. With that, Merlin found himself desperately searching for to find some excuse to stall. If he could just figure out what he needed to do …

"Well. I ... just need to ... " Merlin stretched the time until it was threaded and thin. Then he fell upon it, "Need to … bandage! That's it! Bandage! Geraint here. Has ..."

"Been struck. Yes. I know. Give me the bandages." He held out his one hand. The other he kept perched on his sword. "I will take care of this."

"No no. I can … "

"Arthur is calling you."

Merlin cocked his head again. "Can't say as I can hear him. You?" It was bold, confrontational, almost insolent but Merlin had an innocence that allowed it to be misinterpreted as idiocy.

"Get out of the way." Sir Keith grew angry and without further warning drew his sword.

"Well. Yes. No need to get upset." Merlin said.

"Go."

From behind, Merlin could hear the vaguest movements of a hand spidering over wood. Merlin knew that she was struggling for his attention. Desperately he wanted to look at Geraint but did not dare take his eyes of Sir Keith.

"Why the sword?" Merlin asked, his eyes darting this way and that to see if there would be witnesses or last second rescuers. It may very well have to come down to magic. Without knowing why, Merlin knew he could trust Geraint with the secret. That she understood secrets was a certainty. Knowing Merlin's would most certainly be met with kindness and solidarity – and – for how ever long she lived – her trusted silence.

"Get out of the way, Merlin. Or I will kill you." His anger was bubbling upwards.

The camp cleared temporarily of soldiers and Merlin felt an odd quiet descent. Off in the distance, he could hear the tenor of Uther's voice and then Arthur's in opposition. There would be no witnesses. Not for Sir Keith. Or for Merlin. That perhaps that was what gave Merlin the courage to say it.

"No."

"Then you will die first." Sir Keith said. "Then Geraint. Then Uther and Arthur. The four of you. All at once. And my father will be King. And then I will one day follow."

Before Merlin had a chance, he heard a hiss from behind. It was Geraint. One word. A single order. Precise. Instructive. Demanding obedience that he freely gave.

"Duck."

Merlin immediately doubled over, stooping below the level of the table as Geraint sat up and threw the dirk left behind by Uther. It struck Sir Keith square in the neck and once hit, he dropped the sword. He tried to remove the knife but it had pierced through his neck and was lodged in the vertebrae. With an angry thwarted gurgled he dropped to his knees, then made one last gasp.

The soldier pulled the dirk from his throat, fell onto his face and died."


	32. Chapter 32

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

* * *

Chapter 32

* * *

"What have I done?"

Uther locked his gaze with his son. Arthur did not answer and together they fell into silence. The wind rustled the leaves and swirled cold air around them. Arthur's bangs lifted. Uther's cloak ruffled. A rumble of thunder started off at a distance and then rolled over them in a quiet growl.

After days of exhausting travel, Uther could no longer move and became overwhelmed by an hour's worth of shocks; euphoric relief that his son was alive and well, an assassination attempt on his life that had wounded one of his most favoured soldiers, the discovery that Geraint was a woman who had betrayed him and then the final realization that she was not a traitor. A new idea began unfurling like the petals of a rose. Uther could hardly breathe with the sudden insight; she had willingly sacrificed herself to save his life.

It was too much to comprehend and his thoughts began to settle on one idea. Geraint was a woman. Of course she was. How could Uther have not known? How could he have not known that Geraint was a woman? All that time with her – looking into her soft eyes, seeing her smooth skin never tainted by stubble, watching her fight and ride and run in a way that was effective and fluid – but always a little different from the others. The hours he had spent with her in such uncommon pleasure, such harmonious companionship. They shared ideas and humour and a unity of thought. Uther knew her as well as he knew himself. How could he ever have believed she would betray him? Why had he not trusted her? Uther realized that he understood her completely. He always had. He had known her mind as if it was his own. And Geraint was a woman. On some level – he had always known. It explained his dreams, his fantasies, the illicit desires and why his thoughts had so regularly, so deliberately and relentlessly drifted to ideas that were forbidden and abhorrent.

Geraint had saved his life. She had known the arrow was coming and – despite his complete and utter lack of cooperation – she had saved him. She had spared his life and sacrificed her own. Why? Because – Uther knew – Geraint possessed the highest of ideals. She was a common soldier yet bore the honour of the most noble Knight. She served her King by surrendering to him the most precious gift of all – her life for his. And as thanks he accused her of treason and tried to kill her. Uther could not escape the evidence of his actions and felt his face burn hot.

"Merlin?" The sound of his son's voice drew him out of his trance and he looked around and watched Arthur's servant hop on one foot and then another as if he had been waiting and had not wanted to interrupt. Perhaps it was just his usual awkward gait that made him look so unsteady on his feet. Uther watched as Merlin staggered towards them in a stumbling half run where his legs were not entirely under the command of his brain. His face was more ashen than usual and his hands – covered in blood. Uther shut his eyes to avoid the gore. He knew it was Geraint's blood and knew it flowed from her body like an unending stream of red.

"I'm sorry, Arthur." Merlin did not wait for any acknowledgement to continue. Words tumbled out of him without advancing his cause. "I'm really sorry to disturb you. I … well … "

"Merlin." His son had been drained of patience. "What is it?"

"Geraint …" He said the single name as a proxy for explanation. It was a start but there was no detail and no hint that one was forthcoming. Her name was just accentuated by a mute gesticulation and an idiotic opening and closing of a mouth like a fish out of water.

"Geraint." Uther had no ability to control the anger and felt suddenly cold and alone. "What about her? She is not dead." The whole of his body contracted into a single, focused manifestation of his will. He spoke the words as if it would dictate the ultimate outcome. She was not dead. She could not be dead. He demanded, ordered, decreed that Geraint should live. He was King and the King would be obeyed. Absolute obedience was Uther's birthright.

Merlin pointed over his shoulder towards the centre of the camp.

"She killed Sir Keith. She's … " Once again he could not find words for it. "I really need your help."

"What?" Uther felt the news as another blow to his sternum. Sir Keith was one of Camelot's trusted knights. And his father … Sir Hugh … then a gear fell into place and Uther waited as Merlin held up his hands, as if to calm and ask for permission to speak without interruption. There was more to be said and Uther had no capacity to debate.

"Sir Keith is Crossbow. He's the traitor." Merlin produced the handkerchief and held it out with a shaking hand for inspection. "He was the one trying to kill us all along. His father … wants to be king."

"What happened?" Arthur asked and thundered echoed his question.

"He tried to kill me." Merlin panted and brushed his brow leaving a streak of blood across his forehead. "Geraint, too. He thought she was unconscious. I ducked and Geraint threw a dagger. Hit him square in the throat."

"Sir Hugh." Uther gripped the hilt of his sword. The aimless gears that had whirled and spun for nights on end finally locked and found traction. The plot crystallized. Uther understood and had a sudden wish that he could dispatch the man immediately. Hugh first. Others second. "My suspicions were right."

"I really need you to come see her. She is … very bad."

The wind blew a gust of cold air. A few drops fell from the sky, warning of what was to follow. Then a few more came down – large, icy droplets that hit with hard watery slaps.

Uther waited no longer. It had all changed. Geraint had been ever faithful. To him. His son. Even Merlin. And in one blinding moment of overwrought confused rage, Uther had taken the whole of her devotion and trust and destroyed it. He had ordered her executed – and knew now that unlike his – her faith and allegiance in him had been steadfast – unwavering. She had stood before him and taken the arrow meant for him. She had sacrificed her life for his.

"Geraint." He said, beginning to run. She had been hurt badly – but Uther knew the arrow had missed her heart. Death would have been instant if it had not. He felt cold rain on his cheeks and slip down his neck. His heart began beating rapidly as he approached, vaulting over fallen stumps and muscling through the underbrush.

"Geraint." he charged into the centre of camp where the table remained and took a broad step over the dead man's body. "Geraint!"

Thunder rolled overhead and the heavens became a deluge. Rain pelted down, slashing his cloak with dark, watery stains.

Uther spun around, confused.

Geraint was gone.


	33. Chapter 33

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

* * *

Chapter 33

* * *

Geraint stared up at the black sky and felt the burning in her chest as she breathed. In death, life would be her legacy. Uther would live. Together with Arthur, they and Camelot would endure and flourish hereafter.

After the arrow struck her, she had thought herself finally free – free from her secret, free from suffering, and – believing death would be instant - free from the fear having to explain herself. Then, as she fell into Uther's arms, she knew she was not dead and a new, more ominous fear took hold. There had been such dread in his eyes as he held her, such compassion and concern. She knew he would not surrender her care to anyone else; she was his alone, trapped in an inescapable circumstance. As he lifted her, her lungs seized and she could not breathe. His lips pressed against her ear and he whispered – his deep voice filling her mind with insistence and hope. How would she be able to keep herself hidden from him?

"Geraint." The desperate sound of her name made her ache. "No."

Even here, he commanded. She was powerless to obey; she knew she must die. It was the prophecy. Geraint knew she could never reveal her true self to Uther and live. Her secret was paramount and yet – she had shared something with this man that transcended their respective stations in life. They had affection for each other, a mutual companionship that Geraint cherished above her own life. So important was Uther to her that she sacrificed herself for him. He was her King. But injured, Geraint knew that Uther would discover her secret and out here, in these conditions – there would be no chance for her to explain. He defended all that was his with a swift, rigid justice. She was certain he would kill her.

She shut her eyes to block out his face. She did not want to see the hate in Uther's eyes when he discovered her betrayal. There was a moment – a sublime moment when he held her in his arms and he looked at her with an unexpected intensity of affection that made her shiver. For an instant – she thought her secret would be safe and that Uther would be able to see beyond her gender. Perhaps it was possible that Uther Pendragon, King of Camelot could suspend his basest impulses and transcend all that he was for her.

Yet deep down, she knew. Geraint was not that important. Even as Uther had cared for her with such exquisite gentleness that – if he discovered the truth – she would see no mercy. She began to weep and she wished she could simply die in his arms and never see revulsion in his eyes. Death was preferable to betraying her king. His opinion was all that mattered and she knew her status could never be recovered. Silently, she mourned the loss of his attention, his affection, his companionship. She knew her memory would never be cherished and her name ever spoke with bitterness and example of deceit and treason. Never had she thought she could suffer such pain as the knowledge that she would both hurt him and have him forever hate her.

Uther set her down with care and coaxed her to lean against him. She knew he was going to remove the arrow and she moaned, bracing herself. As he moved deftly, he wasted no time or effort. She felt him plant his feet apart and as he took on the weight of her, he tighten his body as he steeled himself. As he snapped the arrow, she felt it as a vibration deep inside her. Then his voice surrounded her as she breathed in the comfort of his scent. She pressed her face into his cloak, open mouthed with muted agony.

"I am sorry." He had said and embraced her tightly with utter stillness. A whisper. A prayer asking for forgiveness. "It will not last."

And it did not. Uther removed the arrow carefully but swiftly and all at once, she felt another surge of pain. She opened her eyes as he lay her back. He reached for his dirk and her heart pounded in a wave of panic. Uther would cut away at her tunic and she would be utterly exposed. Never would she be able to explain it. There was no time. There were no words. He was Uther Pendragon. Geraint knew he would kill her.

She began to struggle – to free herself from him. If she could only die before he discovered her secret. If she could only escape before he could kill her. As best as she could, she fought him but he was strong and hearty and was not wounded. It was impossible to resist his will.

"Geraint. Let me." He insisted, not understanding her fear. He grabbed her wrists one by one, disabled her until she lay open beneath him, unable to defend herself and knowing that in any instant, she would witness the end of Uther's trust. It had been so hard won; and so cherished. Geraint felt her eyes well with water … she did not want to watch as the truth destroyed the one thing she loved above all else.

She had stared into Uther's eyes and lost herself. He read her expression as fear of pain and he had tried to comfort her. His touch was firm, gentle – it inspired safety and confidence. He leaned into her and whispered – so softly – and his voice took on a hoarse quality that let her know that he understood her suffering. Then he pulled at the hem of her tunic and stood over her and she knew her only hope was to continue struggling against him – perhaps to escape him and perish before discovery. But he was – as he always was – stronger, unaccepting of disobedience and – with her hands bound – she knew. She knew he would discover her secret and the bond they had shared – that she had so cherished – would be broken. He had been – what – a mentor, a teacher, a rare companion. She would have done anything for him – save his son, save his army, save his life. She knew that none of this would matter. He was a good man. A great man. Her king. And with greatness, there came – as with all men – weakness. Uther would only ever see her as a traitor.

How she longed to be with him in the world of her imagination. Where she could be who she really was – accepted and free – not his consort or his queen – but still someone of unequalled importance to him. A confidante. A mind of some merit with whom he shared his innermost thoughts – as he had become thinking Geraint was a soldier and – as such – a man worthy of trust. But more than that – a woman – and able to share a passion possible only with a man such as Uther.

The first tearing of the fabric sounded as loud as the tearing of her heart. It would soon be over. He would know and he would kill her. For one brief moment, she imagined a different Uther – one who would see beyond who she was and remember all that she had been to him. Perhaps he would understand. Perhaps he would accept her. She could hardly speak – her lungs constricted by pain. She would have begged if she had had the voice – begged – and told him stop, to give her a moment so she could tell him – so it would be her telling him and not him discovering her secret. It would have mattered. Uther might have understood, then. It would have been a shock but it would have been voluntary, wiling and he would have heard the regret and sorrow and fear in her voice and it would have been that single thin wedge that might have made the difference.

But her voice was gone. She could hardly breathe. Her throat scraped bare and barely enough air to sustain her life. And then she felt the tunic fall away and then watched as his expression transformed at seeing her bindings. He did not understand. He had not any suspicion. The his hands clawed for the edge of the remaining material and the dirk slit up her middle with the swiftness of a razor's edge. He tore her secret open and the bindings fell away. She felt her skin tight and cold and where the blood had spilled onto her flesh, the sad oozing away of her life.

He had stared at her in horror. Fury passed over his face and she knew his rage would have no end. He did not believe his eyes at first and for a moment, stood and stared, gaping in shock. Uther needed to feel the truth of her body and – as his hands stripped down the full of her, over her breasts and waist and then dug at her groin – she begged him mutely to stop and twisted her body trying to avoid the inevitable. Tears had dripped into her hairline. Nights she had laid awake imagining his hands moving across her skin – deliberate, coaxing, becoming insistent in his desire – but this – this had been hateful, conquest without permission, a rape.

Why had he not been able to understand? Trust her? Despite everything, she continued to hope. He would be angry but it would subside. He would see beyond … and then, he took a single step backwards and withdrew his sword. Uther stared at her with eyes blackened by hate and loathing and revenge and she knew – she knew with all her being – that he would stop at nothing to have her dead.

Suddenly she hated him.

A moment later, Arthur attacked and afforded her the miracle of dying by her own hand. Uther had shifted his attention temporarily but one way or another she knew she would die today; either from her battle wounds, or Uther's hand. She gritted her teeth and vowed it would be neither. She would take her own life before she would succumb to either.

With Merlin having come and gone and Sir Keith killed, Geraint, she knew she did not have much time. She struggled to sit up and then having sat up, swung her legs over the edge of the table. Her tunic fell open and she refolded the fabric. All at once, the feeling of terror returned and she felt panic – the panic of being exposed, of having her secret stripped from her and the knowledge that Uther wanted her dead.

Geraint vowed as she stumbled to her feet and then forward towards the forest; hate propelled her to deny Uther his single desire.


	34. Chapter 34

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

* * *

Chapter 34

* * *

Uther stood in the middle of empty chaos. He gazed around him and then beyond in all directions, searching.

Where was she?

He took a single broad step and passed over the dead soldier towards the empty table, irrationally drawn to the place where he had last seen her, last held and touched her. Gaius' open bag lay to the side, its contents randomly removed and scattered. In the centre, soaked into the rough hewn grain of the table, a blackening stain of blood. On the ground, the broken arrow halves lay just as Uther had dropped them – one piece at a time.

"Geraint!" He called out to her and was answered only by rain patting down on the leaves. The hollow sound reverberated in the silence. He swirled around again, absorbing all and seeing nothing.

Where was she?!

Uther forced himself to settle so he could think. She was badly hurt and could not have gone far. There were two directions; into camp and away. Where would she go except into the forest? With a frustrated slam of his hands on the planks, Uther abandoned the table and headed towards the fringe believing she would be easy enough to find. A short distance into the thick underbrush, he spied a broken sapling and then another. Knowing she was close at hand, he raced nimble-footed following her trail that was made obvious a by wounded carelessness.

"Geraint!" He called out to her again, wishing she would answer. Then up ahead, he saw another damaged branch and in a minor clearing of ferns and moss, Uther spotted her lying sprawled face down on the ground. He ran forward, stumbling over unseen branches. As he reached her side, he dropped to his knees and felt the cold sopping earth chill his flesh.

She had collapsed and had fallen prostrate. Gently, Uther turned her over exposing her face half covered in mud and detritus. In her hand, she gripped his dagger, its end pointed resolutely towards her chest.

"No." He whispered, understanding her intent. He opened her tunic once more, this time terrified of seeing evidence of her success. Her skin was cold, wet, white. The wound at her chest once again opened and began seeping scarlet but it was no worse than before. Tearing off his right glove, Uther pressed his fingers into her cold flesh, looking for a sign of life.

"Geraint." Uther whispered as he used the flat of his hand to brush clean her face but did nothing more than smear filth over translucence. "Geraint." He repeated her name. Was that really her name? There was another name perhaps but she would always be Geraint to him. He dug his fingers into her neck again and this time, a pulse flickered beneath his fingers. Uther yanked off his cloak and wrapped her as if in swaddling, then cradled her limp, soaking body in his arms.

The rain continued to fall. Uther felt streams of water trickle down his neck and begin to thread along his spine. He used his body to protect her from the elements and – for a time – held Geraint by pressing the full of her against his. Her body fit against his in a way that he had forgotten that a woman could. Uther shuddered, nuzzling her. He had not remembered how intense this feeling could take hold.

Geraint was a woman. What she must have gone through to protect herself? Her secret? What must she have done to survive? To compete? To thrive among men? All at once – details began making sense. The leather bindings of her fingers that gave her an extra measure of strength. Her fighting techniques that favoured the small and fast. Her tendency towards observation and logic over excitement and brute strength. As Uther stared at her; she appeared so vulnerable, so delicate. How could he have not known? How could he have simply not known?

As they continued in stillness, the heat from his body seemed to revive her. She moaned – soft, feminine – natural and unhidden. Her eyes flickered. She rolled her head and then she lifted her eyes to meet his. Overwhelmed and unable to speak, Uther watched as recognition dawn on her.

He spoke hoarsely. "You are safe."

Her eyes closed until they were slits and she turned her face away from his. She battled to get her arms free and push him away. "Leave me." She said. "Let me die."

As he brushed her face, he wondered at the delicateness of her skin - such softness – almost ethereal. His hand could not conceal a brief tremor.

"I cannot do that."

"I am dead." With the little strength she had left, she tried again to pull herself away. Her hands pressed against him, fighting for her freedom. "Leave me."

"I cannot leave you."

"Let me die."

"I cannot."

She had given her life for his. She had saved him, protected his son, defended Camelot with her life. There was nothing she would not do for her sovereign. She would obey him … always … ever. He said it softly, knowing this would be the ultimate command.

"I am your king."

The words jolted her. Her eyes flashed open and she glared at him.

"You …!" She hissed in contempt. "Are not my king!" It was fierce and angry and final.

There was numbness. He felt nothing from words that had no meaning. This blow did not hurt him at first. Then it felt like a scratch. Nothing at all. But still – he suddenly felt it there in his heart as the tiniest of wounds. Those five little words "You are not my king" – from someone who had given utter devotion to him; had been willing to give her life - struck him dumb.

To be King was to be hated by some and Uther knew full well he had enemies. Their hatred did not harm him and functioned to keep him alert and wary. But the emotion meant nothing to him; he accepted the hatred in stride, as part of his destiny as King. The hatred had no personal effect on him – he neither loved nor hated in return but rather, continued on as King of Camelot and was governed by concepts more relevant than such extremes.

But Geraint? Geraint had meant something to him – and as he kneeled in the ground and held her in his aching, tired arms, he began to understand how much she had become part of his everyday landscape. She was important, relevant, she had a place in his heart and in his mind and he realized that he cared – deeply – to be held in her high esteem. For the first time, he felt the true nature of what it was to be hated. It was not hate until there had first been love.

All at once, he understood. She had loved him and now she hated. With her last breaths, she was vehement in her rejection. Uther knew he had been the sole cause of her hatred. Guilt washed over him mixed with deep shame and regret. Then an outpouring of love – all that he had repressed for Geraint – despite everything he had known. He loved and had been loved. And in the next instant, Uther understood that all that had been, all that could have been had all evaporated. Love for Uther always disappeared. He gasped at the thought. He refused to have it happen again. Geraint could not leave him. Not now. Not like this. Not without knowing that he – what – cared deeply for her? The pain suddenly took life and spread – shards of pain tore up his insides leaving a gaping hole in Uther's chest – bigger than if he had been cut open by a sword.

Those many men – to a man – had lain in his arms, fighting for life, grateful for his caring; comforted that the King should love his subjects. Years of leading; of deep affection for all who stood with him in battle – sharing a bond so strong that only the passing from one life into the next could break it. He knew their last words. He had cradled them and they knew he would have given all to have them live. They loved him in those final moments – in a pure, unadulterated gratitude and recognition of goodbye. They had willingly given their lives for him and their sacrifice deserved his deep humility. He was their King. It was his duty. It was his honour. At the very moment of death – this cradling of a man in his arms to give the last few moments in comfort - it was the least and the only thing he could do.

But Geraint did not care he was king but rejected all that he stood for. All that he was as King. The endless hours they had spent together – he had spent with her – in the company of someone who knew him better than almost any other in all of Camelot. She had given her life for him. Had she done all this for more than mere servitude to a monarch? Had she understood him, his mind? Had she become part of his heart? After a life of excellence, devotion and service to him – she rescinded her loyalty. Uther understood – loyalty was earned, bestowed – it was not automatic. Her loyalty to him had been sublime and – in one careless action of reflexive vengeance – Uther had destroyed it.

There was no unending gratitude. No final goodbye of eternal sweetness. Just her eyes reaching into his soul and hating him for a doubt that she had never – not once – deserved. Loyalty was all she could have ever given him; service, devotion, protection of his son – and that she gave with all that she was. Willingly. Without question or expectation of any reward beyond a moment of trust that he could not, would not give because he had been led astray. He suddenly realized that she had willingly died so he could live – and for that ultimate sacrifice – he had been willing to kill her. He found himself crush against both the giving and receiving end of his own rigid, unrelenting decisions and found himself wanting more than anything – anything – to take back that moment where he withdrew his sword and stared her down with hate. Now? Now he was not her king … and that had been the only thing he could have given her that would have been worth anything at all.

"You are not … my king." She gritted her teeth. In fury, she struggled to escape him but failed. Then her body began to soften and her resistance waned. She sighed and her head rolled to the side. Rain began to wash the dirt from her face and another rumble of thunder shuddered the air. Her body slowly went limp.

"Geraint?" Uther shook her, trying to rouse her. "Geraint!"

Uther felt the heat of shame and felt his tears mix with the cold rain. Curling her tightly against his chest, he tried to use the pressure of her body against his to keep his heart from splitting in two. It was no use; the ache tore him apart.

Burying his face in her neck, he began to weep.


	35. Chapter 35

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

* * *

Chapter 35

* * *

Gwen had been there in the courtyard when Uther had arrived back in Camelot. She had stood silently beside Gaius and felt the air chill as the sun stretched shadows out to infinity. Gaius was outwardly composed, not given to movement as she was and needed to shift from foot to foot and clasp her hands both forward and then back, adjusting her cloak and then again when the wind folded back one of the edges.

Gaius stood – immovable – his eyes fixed unwavering at the gates. He stood – Camelot's defacto monarch – flanked by Geoffrey of Monmouth and Phillip and backed by a collection of loyal, if irregular guard support. Gwen thought back to three days previous when she and Morgana had been conscripted into a small role in quelling a coup to topple Camelot. It was a story of heroism and triumph. She had never imagined Gaius and Geoffrey so utterly capable. And now? Now two among others of Uther's court remained in the dungeons – traitors who had been temporarily spared their lives.

Earlier in the day, an advanced guard had alerted Gaius of Uther's approach and brought added good news – Arthur was safe and well. Even as Gwen's heart soared at the news, there was more news - Geraint had been perhaps mortally wounded. Without standing on ceremony – and as a habit of a veteran physician – Gaius prepared a receiving room and needed medical supplies for their arrival. He also conscripted Gwen to nursing duties and warned her that Uther might very well insist on displacing her. When she gave him a wide-eyed mute blink, he reassured her that he would ensure Uther leave them unfettered.

Gwen continued to wait - the sun having dipped below the castle walls and the sky growing deep with long shadows slashed across the sky of impossible orange and brilliant purples when she heard Uther enter the castle gates on horseback. The hooves hit at the pace of a gallop. The echoes bounced and reverberated – indicating speed and focus. Uther arrived breathless, with Geraint collapsed against his chest and – after a fashion - cradled in his arms. Gaius, Gwen, Geoffrey and the guards came forward and reached up to take over care of Geraint.

"Careful." Uther said as Geraint was lowered down. "Careful!"

Gwen remembered looking up at the King because he has sounded so fierce, so sharp and untrusting of their care. She watched him – streaked by mud and gore – and how unwilling he was to simply let go of Geraint. Once relieved of his passenger – she stared as Uther wrapped his fist around the leather harness as if to keep himself from collapse and folded forward with exhaustion. She gasped, thinking he was going to fall and her sudden intake of air alerted the others.

"My lord?" Gwen did not know how else to begin.

Uther lifted his chin and there was blackness in his eyes, a deadness in his voice and a stoic expression on his face. It was as if in those few seconds where his head had been bowed, he had become someone else. The man he was had been buried alive beneath an avalanche of fatigue and suffering; and in his place remained Uther the King.

"Gaius." His voice was hoarse, rough and cold. "Geraint is a woman."

Silence sizzled in the air. The words seemed to snap like a whip and echo in the emptiness. They all exchanged glances – as if needing convincing and witnesses to truly understand what had been said. No one seemed confident that they had heard correctly. It was impossible for the audience to grasp the idea and all its implications.

"I beg your pardon, sire?"

"A woman." Uther dismounted and came towards them. One of the guards now held Geraint in his arms and gaped at his charge anew. Geraint's head swung backwards, unsupported. Uther drew to her side, then placed his hand gently across her forehead and then ran his gloved hand through her hair with a tenderness that she had never suspected Uther could ever possess. Gwen felt a sudden rush of fear wash over her; something had happened. Everything had changed and Geraint's life took on a much higher level of importance that simply a platoon soldier. She also felt a voyeur – witnessing Uther in a moment of unguarded vulnerability that she wanted to look away and not see – for his sake – to protect his privacy.

"She must live, Gaius."

"Of course, Sire." Gaius seemed unaffected by the revelations. "Let us take her inside and …"

"Gaius?"

"Yes, sire?"

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me too soon. I'm sure I haven't done anything yet."

Uther shook his head in disagreement. "Camelot still stands."

And with that, Gwen was able to remain at the centre of activity in Camelot – at least one part of it. While she and Gaius did their best for Geraint, Uther sentenced and then executed Lennox and Hugh – having irrefutable proof of their treasonous activities.

Thereafter every evening, Gwen would enter Geraint's room in silence. Every night she arrived hoping to see Geraint sitting up, smiling and willing for a visit. Or at least awake. But it was always the same. Geraint lay in candle light – long golden shadows flickering across her face. She was unchanged from one day to the next.

Gwen placed the basin on the low dresser. Geraint's clothes and effects were neatly set out – a tunic (repaired), trousers and a few random articles form her pockets – a rabbit's foot, a deck of cards, a pencil stub, a map. It was all there but her weapons that had been removed and stored in the armoury. Every night, Gwen ensured the artefacts were all accounted for and still neatly arranged, as if this order contributed to Geraint's healing.

Gwen peered down at her face as she wrung out the cloth. Geraint was pale, expressionless and Gwen wanted to believe that meant free from pain. Under Gaius' almost non stop care – her wounds had begun healing but it was slow. And never did she wake.

Gwen wished very badly to talk to her for she wanted to know all about her. She believed they would be good friends and this was like waiting for someone special to arrive from far away. She had always felt an inexplicable affinity towards the soldier – a closeness that was different from other men. The unexpected revelation had explained the shyness and the circumspection but it did nothing to quell the feeling of attachment Gwen felt towards her but intensified it.

After washing her face, Gwen straightened her bangs as best she could. A hair cut – Gwen thought – that might be in order; something soft and feminine. She looked at the face and could find a sort of prettiness in her features. Gwen re-perfected the edge of the blanket and then took hold of one of her unresponsive hands and whispered.

"It's Gwen. You're in Camelot. You're safe now. We're all very worried about you." Then, when she received no indication or sign that she had been heard, she added. "I wish you would wake up."

From outside the door she could hear unhurried footsteps approach. Uther – she thought. He came here every night.

It was the same every evening. Uther would arrive and send her away then spend the next long while alone with Geraint while Gwen waited outside on a bench a shot distance from the doorway. Sometimes she could hear the tenor of his voice – but the words were unintelligible – they were for Geraint alone. When he reappeared he would resume his slow walk back down the hall – hands tucked behind his back – red robes flowing. His head would be bowed for a moment or two, then he would recover himself and lift his head. He would continue on his way – shoulders square, chin up, posture regal.

When Gwen would re-enter the room, she would notice that Geraint's hand had lay across her stomach and her bangs would have been brushed back as if fingers had caressed her face. She would first smooth out the covers where the bed would have an indent at her hips, where Uther would have sat at her side.

In the hallway, the footsteps grew louder and then finally stopped. The clasp of the door clicked and the door swung open. Uther stood in the archway.

"Leave us." He said.


	36. Chapter 36

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

* * *

Chapter 36

* * *

At the front of the army he led, Arthur sat atop his horse. At his side and a few paces behind, Merlin and the first platoon followed. They moved out onto the expanse of field, into the setting sun and the gentle winds that rippled long grass into whorls, and moved on, returning ever homeward. His father had departed days earlier and Arthur was reminded once more that to move a man was far easier and faster than to move a standing army.

Arthur stared forward, eyes open but saw the past not the present.

It had not been overly difficult to find his father. In search of Geraint, Uther had not been interested in stealth and – to be honest – Geraint had not been able to go far. When he had seen his father off in the distance, all Arthur could discern was his back and the soaked glossy blackness of his father's brown leather doublet. As he approached, however, he caught sight of the edges of the royal red cloak and how it had been tucked and wrapped and bundled into his father's arms.

Geraint. A chill swept over Arthur. Was she dead?

Arthur remembered being propelled forward, rushed in panic to find out Geraint's fate and then suddenly compelled by his father's bowed silhouette to stop in his tracks. Even now, the scene played out again in slow motion, never in full speed – as if every detail needed to be turned over and seen from all angles to be understood in its own time – so that Arthur could give those moments of seeing his father – unguarded and alone - their fullest due.

Arthur had stared at his father's broad shoulders and noticed – noticed how they hunched forward and shook, silently but with the energy of stifled fierceness that froze Arthur. It was his father and his father was – ? At first, he had no name for it. It took Arthur a moment to figure it out because the idea was so foreign a concept that he might have thought it impossible. His father – a man who bore the weight of leadership with stoicism and unquestionable strength – a soldier of skill, experience and legend – his own father who had been a giant of a man all of Arthur's life - was crouched before him, bent over and weeping. In twenty years, Arthur had witnessed his father in an almost infinite range of emotion – from one extreme to the other. Anger. Pleasure. Revenge. Amusement. Frustration. Satisfaction. Fatigue. He had even seen his father pushed so far that self-control was almost abandonned. But never had Arthur witnessed his father reveal such unguarded vulnerability.

As Arthur began to fathom what was before him, almost imperceptibly, his father began rocking back and forth and all at once, a sound of agony from his father made his hackles rise in fear. Arthur had never seen his father like this – disintegrated by emotion. It startled him, made him afraid in a way that he could not explain. His father – Soldier, Leader, King – was before him - broken in a way that Arthur would have never believed possible. Arthur could not look away so mesmerized was he by the shock of it.

Arthur knew – too – all at once and for the first time in his life – that had that body been his own – that his father's grief for his only son would have been more than equal to this. The potential for it had been revealed in his father's face when he had first set eyes upon Arthur and held him with such force and such inexplicable joy and relief of seeing his only son alive and well. In absence of evidence, Arthur had been forced to believe such filial affection existed in theory. Now Arthur knew for certain; he now knew what it was to have his father's love. It would be subdued, forced into silence by ceremony and responsibility and the loneliness of leadership; it would be driven by expectation and – above all and hidden from view and yet so profound in depth it was almost beyond expression. That his father kept such feelings buried deep beneath the surface did not mean it did not exist. It simply meant one needed to read the smallest of gestures. Slowly, Arthur became aware of the solitude, the isolation and aloneness that was his father – as king and as a man.

Arthur continued to stand and stare as the rain pelted down and the wind whipped through the leaves. Geraint had been held in his father's highest esteem one moment and the next – discovered a woman and nearly murdered by him. Such was the vicissitude of a king in these times. And now? Now Geraint was clutched to his father's chest, protected, beloved, mourned. There were no words from his father; only the faintest rasping sound as he drew breaths between unheard weeping.

Ever after, Arthur would not recall how the spell had been broken; how he had approached his father in such a way to allow his father to retreat and recompose; how Arthur was able to stare into the stern, iron eyes that were red and swollen and yet support the illusion that the King – his father- had been wholly unshaken and unmoved and was not now in any way vulnerable or distraught. The mask was restored never having had fallen. Those moments had been Arthur's collusion of respectful blindness and he knew they would never be admitted to or acknowledged. Ever.

His father had pulled himself to his full height, Geraint still in his arms; caressed, protected by the Pendragon shield. Back at camp, his father's hands had shook as he confirmed that Geraint still lived. She had stirred momentarily, eyes flickering open and, seeing Uther refused him.

"Let me die." She said as her lids sealed shut.

"Geraint." His father whispered, begging for something Arthur did not understand.

When his father looked up, they both pretended that it was only the rain that streamed down his face. Arthur was frozen in place – unable to comfort, unable to help. Then, with the hollow energy of a building storm in a ruin, the King had demanded his horse and Richard and without any wasted time – set off for Camelot and the care she desperately needed.

Arthur remembered standing alone, watching his father gallop out of sight and feeling his heart ache for his father. Arthur felt suddenly grown up – an equal to his father – as if by witnessing this pain of his father, the man, the King, had suddenly become human. To see his father this way felt like a rite of passage; Arthur felt no longer a child. His parent was not invincible. There was a chink in his armour; it came via the people he cherished. Arthur felt a protective welling of emotion and the deepest unsatisfied empathy – a wish to ease his father's pain in whatever way he could. If Arthur could have taken over his father's suffering, he would have – it was almost too much for Arthur to bear to watch.

"Merlin?" Arthur said, returning to the present. He looked to his flank and had to repeat himself before he was heard.

"Yes, Arthur?"

"Tell me again. What did she say."

Merlin sighed. He looked down at the mane of the horse, flicked the reins and then glanced up. This story had been told at least a dozen times.

"Go on." Arthur insisted. If it would be two dozen by the time they returned to Camelot, so be it. Arthur needed to understand.

"She was upset."

"About what?"

"She … she thought she had failed in her duty. Failed Uther. She wanted to be left to die."

"What else?" Arthur knew. He wanted to hear it again. He wanted to hear it again by the one man who had heard it first hand, who had witnessed everything and would have noticed every nuance of voice and expression. Merlin – of all men – had a capacity to intuit, to put into words the vagaries of impression and sensation. For all Merlin's inaccuracy in every other forum, this mastery of divining clarity was his alone to have. It was a gift that Arthur did not possess and the only way he could get access to it was through relentless questioning of his servant. Eventually, the man would hit upon the mark and reveal in stark relief what Arthur suspected he had known all along.

"She made certain we knew about the trap. And Sir Keith. She said as much as she could say – she was in terrible pain - she wanted you to know to retreat. So you would be safe. But it was …" Merlin stopped.

Arthur gave him a sidelong glance. Merlin always stopped here. It was the precursor to Merlin's editorial – the self-same editorial that seemed in other circumstances unfiltered and unstoppable even upon repeated orders. But here, now, with this subject – it was reluctant and careful – as if Merlin was revealing a secret and that it was a betrayal. Yet this – this was the part of the story that Arthur was driven to hear over and over again – as if in the retelling of it he might discover something new or understand something more. About his father. About Geraint.

"Go on."

"I've told you this a hundred times, Arthur. Do you really need to hear …"

"Yes. Tell me."

"I think …" Merlin started off softly, "I think it was Uther. He really upset her."

"Well of course he did, Merlin. He drew his sword. He was prepared to kill her on the spot. Who wouldn't be upset?" This – too – was part of the dance.

Merlin shook his head. "It wasn't like that at all. Anyone who knows Uther would … know he doesn't like surprises. Out here having narrowly missed being killed himself? Who wouldn't predict his reaction? Geraint is a soldier. Uther is a soldier. And a King. She would have understood. No, that wasn't it."

Once more, Arthur paused as long as he could bear it, wanting just this one time to have Merlin fill in the blank without being asked. Arthur let their mounts move on in silence and then gave in.

"What then?"

Merlin stopped and it was several paces before Arthur realized it. Noticing, he circled back for his answer. They sat upon horses and faced each other. The silence stretched out between them. This time it was different. This time Merlin wore an expression of deep sadness. It was regret, sorrow and the emotional outpouring of a helpless bystander to tragedy he desperately wished he could have prevented.

"I think … he broke her heart."


	37. Chapter 37

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes.

* * *

Chapter 37

* * *

The courtyard of the castle was filled to capacity with people and banners and cheering and the warmest of welcomes. Citizenry of all ages, occupations and personal history stood shoulder to shoulder waving flags and white kerchiefs. There was joy in faces recognizing their returning loved ones and deep sadness for those whose lives would be changed indelibly by the loss of a beloved. Above it all, the crowned King of Camelot – regal, formal and unreadably stoic – oversaw the proceedings.

For Arthur, there had been no advance news of Geraint save that she still lived and no indication of his father's mood beyond the expected solemness of an army returning home. Uther desired stability and peace and leadership for his citizens and so they would have it so long as he were king. The public Uther was as expected; controlled, respectful, stately. And the private? That discovery would have to wait. Any underlying emotions or ideas that his father desired to keep undisclosed would be remain so – irrevocably known to himself alone. As ever, his father's innermost thoughts could only be approximated and only by those closest to him. No – there was no early warning of anything untoward. Arthur would need to speak to his father directly to take the measure of the man.

Arthur settled his horse back into place after it made two small steps to wander. He crossed one wrist across the other in his lap, the injured arm on top. With Merlin's meticulous – and one might be tempted to define it as unrelenting - attention and Gaius' medicinal supplies, he was healing well. To relieve the mild soreness, he circled his wrist once or twice and continued to withstand the long ceremony, as was his duty, displaying seriousness and decorum. This formal repatriation of troops – as his father always told him – demonstrated how highly in esteem Camelot held the men who fought to maintain the peace the citizens enjoyed.

All the while, Arthur mentally tried to hurry the pomp and circumstance and failed utterly. He wanted off his horse. He wanted a hot bath and a shave and clean dry clothes and his own bed and food – hot, fresh, flavourful food - that had not been prepared by Merlin. He wanted to see his father, Geraint and the two women who so regularly made their duo into a happy foursome – in that order. Then – after a fanfare of horns – the rows of soldiers began moving. Arthur passed under the balustrade and saluted his father, who in return honoured the men who had returned and, more importantly, those who had not. When finally Arthur was dismissed and permitted to stand down the army, Arthur thanked William for his particular assistance with Geraint's Second Platoon then went in search of any one of his desires.

Gwen and Morgana had been waiting at the mouth of the stables to ambush them and their welcome for Merlin and him was exuberant, girlish and filled with unrestrained affection. Seeing them both – fresh and clean and rosy-cheeked, he realized how much he had missed them both. Their hugs were extended and weepy and the longer he held them, the more he realized he was in need of soap and water. Words tumbled out of them as he and Merlin extricated themselves from their embraces – news of what had happened while they had been away – how Gaius had brilliantly masterminded the thwarting of a great coup – how they had played a pivotal role of espionage and had stood strong at one of the blockades during the final push. Then they went on to news of Uther and of Geraint – how Uther had arrived at a gallop and with the stunning revelation that Geraint was a woman – a woman! They were ablaze with curiosity – had either of them known it? When? How had they discovered it? Uther had revealed nothing and simply commanded she be restored to health. Of course Gaius had done everything he could to save her and gradually under his expert care she had begun to heal. Uther had haunted the empty corridors where her room was located; without fail he visited every night and a day or two ago, she had awoken. Then – with a sidelong glance to each other – Gwen and Morgana's words slowed and they began picking at what they said and the silences became as important as the conversation. Guardedly, they continued and exchanged unspoken messages when they spoke again of Uther. He was aloof; kept his own council. He often did – they had all agreed in a rushed conclusion – as if relieved to explain this new mood of Uther's. It was in his nature to be thus and of no material concern. But Arthur knew then that whatever had happened at the Forks of the Renaud had not been resolved. Perhaps it had grown worse.

"Merlin. I need a bath." He said finally to end it.

"Yes. You certainly do." Morgana agreed, fanning her hand at her nose and with bright eyes resumed the teasing banter of old. "You are a smelly, filthy mess."

After an hour's ablutions, Arthur went in search of his father in the Great Hall. The King was otherwise engaged, at the centre of a grand reception and surrounded by a large throng of citizens and soldiers. Backing away from the doorway, Arthur knew speaking to his father in private would be impossible so he temporarily abandoned it in favour of seeing Geraint.

Her room was where Gwen had described it. They had re-purposed one of the many guest rooms for her – first as a surgery and then as a convalescent room. It was functional and located at the end of one of the long castle corridors.

Gently, he knocked and, hearing no summons, entered. Geraint – as Gwen had warned might be – was asleep. He came to her bedside and peered down at her. For a while, he studied her – now clean and still and framed against crisp, white linen. Geraint looked different here; her face was delicate, shaped by soft curves and smoothness. How could he ever have thought she was a man?

"Hello, Geraint." He said, slipping his fingers under hers and squeezed her hand, hoping for a response but received none. "It's me, Arthur. We are returned." He held her right hand, noticed the leather binding had been removed and felt at edges where smooth skin blended into callous.

Without an answer in return – Arthur did not know what else to say. He wanted to ask and then explain about his father – to mend whatever damage had divided them. Reflecting on their time on the battlefield, Arthur also knew what else he personally had to say – about his respect for her, how she had contributed to their success, how he became to rely on her as an ally and a strategist - just as his father had instructed him - and how he had easily sustained it because she had proven her worth. Arthur wanted her to know that her secret did not matter nor did her gender alter her accomplishments or skill as a soldier. Ruefully, he knew he owed her at least one apology for deliberately provoking her to anger for no reason but his own spoilt indulgence. All this he did not want to waste on her slumber. He owed it to her to tell her properly.

Arthur lingered awhile, hoping that she might rouse and then, began looking around the room. It was as all guest rooms in Camelot were – dressed in austere Pendragon opulence. The wide four poster bed centred the room. Candles were fresh in pewter holders. Geraint had been dressed in a fine linen shirt and covered with goose down bedding and a heavy scarlet coverlet.

Her few clothes and possessions were set out neatly on the bureau beside him and, curious, Arthur moved to inspect the display. He viewed them as in a museum of sacred artefacts; his hands clasped behind his back and studied them one by one. First, he identified one half of the infamous pair of maps. He could see the edges of her writing – the letters a little crudely done but precise and confident. That map had been the key to everything; her observation critical to avoiding wholesale slaughter of Camelot's army. Next there was a pencil whittled down to almost nothing, then a rabbit's foot that he had never seen before but thought that he had seen Merlin with one just like it. And the cards – he recognized the pattern immediately – the cards where she had managed to thwart him from pursuing danger and folly and where she had taken on that impossible risk in his stead. He picked up the deck, pressed the edges to keep the sharpness of the stack undisturbed and checked the bottom card.

The Jack of Clubs.

That was the card.

The rueful grin was reflexive. Arthur would never again see that particular face card and not think of their exchange on the battlefield. She had lured him by an infernal card trick into a strategic agreement that he – by all rights of birth, leadership and egotistic desire – he should have never even have debated. In retrospect, he acknowledged that it was her desperation to win that reduced her to resorting resort to this pitiable challenge. Her chances at winning were infinitesimally small and yet she gambled. She was trying to keep the Crown Prince safe and at the head of his army at all costs. By the time she had proposed the gambit, she had run out of arguments and options to convince him otherwise. Despite the risk of losing, she must have understood that it was – nonetheless – a course of action that must be fought for - to the fullest extent possible, until all hope was lost. It was in her nature. It was brinkmanship. It was what his father understood to be her towering strength.

And Arthur? He knew the odds were stacked almost unanimously in his favour– and moreover – he felt a pang of pity for the diminutive shape and nervous, fumbling tentativeness that she presented as she argued her last resort. He had considered the facts of her proposition and position and knew she had almost no chance at succeeding. Yet - she was his second in command and – if nothing else – worth the minor indulgence. Arthur had believed himself with nothing to lose and a point of order to gain. It was this combination of unlikelihood and honour that had convinced him to agree to it.

Thinking back – even as he watched her at the time - he knew – forcefully and with all of his being - that she had barely known what she was doing. Geraint had no skill handling cards and clearly she had not the slightest control during her trick. She had dropped cards – she could hardly shuffle – her fingers were awkward and her hands clumsy - and then she was forced to guess his card. It was the only way to keep Arthur from a dangerous course of action. Her nervousness had been palatable.

By pure fate and accident alone, had guessed at the card he actually held. Arthur knew beyond doubt that she had been very, very lucky and. That binding agreement could have been her one strategic error but the stars had aligned for her. Geraint's daring and persistence in the face of utter defeat was awe-inspiring. The odds had been so impossibly against her. By all rights – there was no way she could have won except the fluke of drawing one card out of many yet she followed it to fruition, refusing to quit. It had been the most extreme examples of blind faith and proved to be the only way he would allow her to take on the risk travelling alone without the protection of an army and in return keep him safe and whole and able to command his army.

He stared at the back of the cards fondly and smiled again. Her ploy had been so pathetic, so feeble and desperate, and so … so frivolously feminine … in the underestimating of the probable outcome. All at once he felt a sense of great affection for her to have even attempted it. It was a testament to her belief and commitment to Camelot and the Pendragon legacy. She stopped at nothing for their cause. Then out of habit and boredom and because that was what one did with cards, Arthur shuffled them twice, then flipped over the top card. Another brief grin passed over his face. The Jack of Clubs. There it was again. It seemed a constant thread – a reminder of her persistence against all odds – an echo of who Geraint truly was.

His hands fiddled naturally with the cards – shuffling and splitting and stacking - he manipulated them easily and in an unconscious decision, he turned the cards over face up and fanned them out in a single motion. A patterned flash of colour caught his eye and he looked down.

Every card was the Jack of Clubs.


	38. Chapter 38

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes. You all are so generous I can never tell you how much it means.

* * *

*** This particular chapter may not be suitable for all audiences ***

* * *

Chapter 38

* * *

In the early morning, Uther took up his recently formed habitual position in his private rooms. The previous day of ceremony had left him pensive and in no less need that usual of solitary hours. He had not yet spoken to his son and he knew it would be some time before the boy would be fully returned to the rhythms of the castle. On his first day of return, Uther did not expect him until mid morning.

This place – here in his chambers – staring out the mullioned window into the emptiness of the courtyard - had become his routine. People came. People went. Vendors, soldiers, citizens; they moved in waves, in ones and twos, braiding and separating – filling Camelot with life. They laughed and greeted and displayed a peace and contentment that preoccupied him because of its foreignness. He had felt that way once, he thought. It seemed such a long time ago.

He clasped his hands at the small of his back and felt his red robes settle out behind him like a shield. He muscled his thoughts into a temporary new order and considered first that it was good to have his son home. Arthur was safe and sound and many – in fact a majority - of Camelot's soldiers had also returned. Losses were inevitable and Uther felt every one deeply. This time, however, there was one loss that seemed to hurt more, last longer than all the rest. It was the wound that would not heal and made infinitely worse because he was alone was responsible.

Activity continued below him and – as he had done every day since returning to Camelot – Uther lost sight of it as other images pushed their way into his mind. He could close his eyes – any time of the day - so much quicker if it were night – and have complete recall of returning Geraint to Camelot. He had ridden home as quickly as possible. His pace had been impossible and he had ordered rest for Richard who had tried valiantly to maintain his speed. He was too young and he – unlike Uther – was not chased by the demons of guilt and passion and fear. Geraint had passed the entire trip in unconscious silence; all except one unforgettable night when briefly, she became aware.

- - -

Richard had been abandoned the previous day and Uther had continued to push himself well beyond his limits. As darkness settled in that night, he finally had to acknowledge that he needed rest if he were to continue. Seeking refuge in a modest village – he had been given meagre shelter, with a bed, a small candle and absolute privacy.

As he entered, there was moonlight streaming down onto the pillow. He lay her down on the bed and – for a time he did not touch her but simply hovered, shaking his hands to rid himself of numbness that came from a constant tight hold that kept her in his arms. It had been hours of riding and hardly a rest from sun up to sun down. Now, he had no dexterity and no ability to inspect or change her dressings until the feeling came back. She was still wrapped in his cloak – there was nothing warmer he could provide her except his own body heat and that was given by virtue of how he had carried her – full against him. His body ached – from the relentless riding, the unnatural carriage and the fatigue. As sensations returned to his digits, he knelt down and exposed her wounds. Making competent work of it, he changed and repacked her wound and was relieved to note it had seeped no worse than any other day. For a moment, he sat on the edge of the bed – knees on elbows - with his head hanging down. Rousing himself, he bundled the bloodied bandages in careless disarray then gave up when half done and tossed them aside. All at once, he felt a whole new ache envelope him.

Exhausted beyond movement, he blew out the candle and lowered himself to the floor beside her bed, then rolled so his back leaned against the wall. Noises in the night echoed in the distance. Animals, he thought, and in a motion of habit as opposed to perceived threat, he placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. His eyes burned as he shut them and he tipped his head back. Sleep consumed him rapidly and he heard nothing until a voice had awoken him.

"Is anyone there?" Her voice was a whisper but it held panic, urgency, and fear.

Uther opened his eyes. At first he was stupid and drunk with fatigue but – like every good soldier – he shook off the feeling and became awake in an instant. Alert and prepared for anything, he scrambled to his knees and came to her side.

"Geraint?" He looked down upon her and found her eyes open, blinking in the faint moonlight.

"Geraint?" A frown passed over her brow. "My brother is dead." She told him. Then she reached out to him and clutched his sleeve, as if afraid of losing him in the darkness. She pulled herself up and whispered in a quivering voice. "Everyone is killed but me. "

Uther did not understand except that this must have come from her distant past. For Geraint, this was another time; another place. It was who she had been long ago – a young girl, afraid and alone in the world. He came closer still and lowered himself so that their conversation dropped to intimacy. She pulled him in with her grip and he could feel her trembling. Her eyes were wide with fearful intensity that unsettled him. In a soothing gesture, he brushed his hand over her forehead into her hair.

"You are safe."

"Have we escaped? Where are we?" She would not loosen her hold on him. "Who are you?"

Uther did not answer. She was in a long ago world and to tell the truth would not provide her any reassurance. Perhaps there would be no point; she would not even know him. Or worse, she would remember his name and it would pull her into the present where he was the last person she wanted to be near.

"I am … a friend. You are safe." He continued playing his fingers through her hair in a slow, rhythmic way that he hoped would calm her rapid breathing and her shivering. Beyond the walls, night creatures scuttled and screeched. The disturbance startled her and she shrank back and put up a hand in defence of an imaginary blow. There were more animal noises – the howling and shrieking of a protracted fight – and she drew him close once more gripping him harder still and stared at him with unfiltered terror. He offered no resistance and allowed her to pull him in. To Uther she was fragile and without strength; feeble but prepared to fight for her survival. Then her intense effort began to show its effect and she folded over her wound, abandoning her hold on him. Gasping, she clutched her chest and cried out. "I am … hurt." She looked up at him with tears glistening in her eyes. She was surprised – afraid and confused.

"Have you killed me?"

Uther swallowed hard. His recent past slammed into his present; it had been a decision he would regret for the rest of his life – made without thinking in a moment of intense personal conflict. It was his explanation but never his excuse. Had his son not interfered, he would have slain her where she lay because he had temporarily lost sight of the truth. Geraint's eyes were wide and innocent and he had to look away for a moment to regain his composure.

"No." he said, finally able to lift his eyes and meet her gaze. It was not a lie.

"I'm afraid." She reached out for his sleeve and tugged. "Hold me." Then, she moved a little to the side of the bed and tried to pull him closer. It was childlike, innocent – full of trust and a want of nothing more than comfort from someone whom she imagined would protect her.

Uther resisted. Right and wrong swayed back and forth on a pivot – each trying to win the balance of his actions. Over days of travel, with her held flush against his body, the banished passions had resurfaced yet Geraint had rejected all that he was. His agreement to her request now – in this compromised state - would have him seize this unexpected opportunity. It would be another betrayal of all that he wanted to be for her; King, protector, companion and confidant. It meant that now … now he was certain he had no permission; no right to agree. No matter how much she asked or needed him, Uther knew that he could only provide comfort at a distance.

The wilderness noises came closer and she grew more agitated. She pushed at him for his attention – shoving and pulling his arm - pleading.

"Please."

She was in another realm – separate from Uther but irrevocably connected to him by physical presence. He understood he was nothing more than a memory of someone else – a phantom shadow of all that he now wished he could be. She was afraid and seeking safety. The scales tipped again and he considered it. He knew there was space enough on the bed and imagined how easily she would fit against him. The pendulum hit its apex and gained momentum in the opposite direction. Uther knew if he did this thing, he would be stealing – stealing moments with her that were not his to have nor were they Geraint's to give; if she had understood, she would not have asked him for anything. She would have rather died.

"You are safe." He sounded gruff and even to him, the harshness destroyed his natural calm voice and made him sound unsympathetic and dismissive. "I will let nothing harm you."

But his reassurance was not enough to break through her panic and she shook him – hard and without end - until he thought she would do damage to herself.

"Hold me." She begged again, her voice ever more tight and anxious. "Don't let them kill me. There is no one else left. I am afraid."

Uther took a long moment and peered directly into her eyes. He had stared into those eyes a thousand times and knew he could see into her soul. Geraint was transparent; she was terrified, abandoned and desperate and she had placed him at the epicentre of her existence, of her survival. This was real to her.

Gradually he stood, and let his hands fall to his sides. His debate raged.

Right. Wrong.

Stay. Go.

He could not stand here like this forever.

Give. Take. Steal.

Decide.

Then without further thought, he surrendered and began fingering the looped end of his wide leather strap and started to remove his sword belt, shutting off the part of his mind that railed against his final choice. As he set his weapons aside, he refused to hear the arguments he was betraying another trust and the accusation of his own selfish gain. He knew he might never have these moments ever again – he would seize them as his own in trade for what he would give her in return.

Finding the edge with his hands, Uther eased himself onto the bed in stages – mindful of where she lay. The struts creaked as he stretched out his full weight and turned to take her into his arms. She curled into him tightly, scrambling and tucking into the crevices of his body as if seeking beyond anything safety and protection. Geraint's unknown fears made her oblivious to him. She sought refuge in his body, wedging herself tightly against him, not knowing that he was a man and this man in particular who had spent sleepless nights vainly trying to vanquish a persistent and unending desire for her. This reality morphed seamlessly with his imagination; enhancing and heightening his perceptions until he could think of nothing else but her. All at once, Uther became overwhelmed. This was impossible. It was wrong. One last time, the scales rebalanced and he shifted back in retreat and tried to pull away.

Instantly, she reacted to his retreat and she clutched him desperately, panicked for him to stay. He froze and let the fullness of the moment take hold. If it were to be, it could not be done in half measures. Stay. Or go. There was no middle ground. He was in no man's land. If he stayed, he would be unable to resist savouring these moments in a way that would be for him alone. He bargained with his conscience. This choice to stay would come at a cost to him; a cost of untouchable intimacy. That secret agony made him hesitate another moment until finally, Uther gave into the consequences and shifted his body, opening himself up to her and letting her have whatever she needed from him.

The shift happened almost instantly. Wanting nothing more than sanctuary of human contact, she shifted closer and pushed up with her hips and pressed against him in a way that made him forget his thoughts; that reduced him to nothing at all except a deep, yearning desire for what he could not have. He could hear the sound in his throat – a low grunting that came from deep inside him. Uther pressed his face against her forehead to stifle his sound and then the smell of her enveloped him. She was rain and fresh clover and the heady sweetness of spring. All at once the thought of having her ruled him. It would have been so simple to fulfil his desire. The mechanics were effortless; and she would have had no chance against him. And yet Uther knew this was beyond him. There had already been one line drawn and crossed, his principles abandoned for a convoluted and tenuous logic. There would be no second breach. Instead, he endured corporal suffering and knew this would be enough to sear the memory of her permanently in his mind. He knew he might never again have this chance – and knowing that – he began forming a memory so strong he knew he would be able to conjure it at will. He would steal this night from her and in return, he would give her the comfort she so desperately sought. He was now the champion he had longed to be for her and even if it was only this once and if she never knew this hero had been him, then this would be all he was allowed.

"Am I safe?" She whispered, reminding him she was there and still afraid.

Without harming her, he used his body weight and limbs to settle her, pulling her close and encompassing her with deliberate, reassuring strength. His lips rested lightly on her forehead. "Yes. I will protect you forevermore."

He lay awake for hours after, letting the shape of her body become an indelible part of his consciousness.

When he awoke, the sun was up and he could hear Richard's voice in the yard outside and only moments away. By the time the door shifted inward, Uther stood with his sword belt on and was folding his cloak around the unaware Geraint. When Richard entered, Uther had his hands on his hips and was impatient to resume their journey.


	39. Chapter 39

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes. You all are so generous I can never tell you how much it means.

* * *

Chapter 39

* * *

After Geraint had been successfully delivered into the expert care of Gaius - and for the first two days after he had returned - Uther had done nothing but sleep. Periodically, he would awaken and be disoriented and at odds with the time of day. Thinking it morning, he discovered night; expecting night, he was blinded by sun.

As he lay half-awake, face down and sunk heavily into pillows, he was unable to move from the exhaustion. Overwhelmed by the lasting vibrations of a galloping horse, he could still feel the sensations of Geraint's body held tightly against his as they melded together by the rhythms of the horse. Without her, he felt incomplete – as if he was missing part of himself. Her shape, the sound of her breathing, the scent of her skin were indelible and the memory of her remained as vivid as if she were still with him. As he lay there, his mind played tricks on him and conjured her presence – a phantom formed out of bed cushions.

Uther could not consider stirring. Every muscle and sinew had seized. His shoulders and neck burned from inside and he could do nothing but lie there immovable and listen to the basal and familiar hum of the castle activity. Voices. Footsteps. Whispers. Wheels over cobblestone. The sounds lulled him like a heartbeat and Uther floated in and out of consciousness. Geraint was there in his dreams, just out of reach but near enough that it tantalized him. He awoke again, reached out and hugged the pillows against him, feeling empty and unsatisfied.

After a while, he could detect a savoury smell that was pungent enough to open his eyes and lift his head. He rolled to the side with a heavy groan. Every joint complained as he stood. Knees. Hips. Shoulders. They were all slow to work, protesting and resistant to coordinate. He was half dressed, boots gone. He had no recollection of their removal. Seeing his leather doublet over the back of a chair, Uther pulled it aside and sat heavily at the table. Drawing the plate towards him, he ate the food that had been laid out for him. Having been served hours earlier, the meal was cold but still he consumed it with impolite gulps to sate a ravenous hunger that was the only thing that could have propelled him from the cocoon of his bed. Once his belly was full, his body reverberated with an ache that went right into his marrow. It drove him back to bed where he collapsed back into another deep, dream-filled sleep.

When finally he emerged from his chambers – restored to decency and some measure of rest – he was met by Gaius who had arrived for a private audience, hands muffed in sleeves, expression calm but serious. After an obligatory reassurance that his slow movement was nothing more than minor muscle ache, he ignored Gaius' unbelieving expression and insisted upon news. He was provided a physician's report that did not satisfy him in either detail or prognosis. The old man knew more than he was telling and when Uther could no longer keep his agitation contained and let impatience punctuate his sentences, he had the specific feeling that he had become the focus of Gaius' attentive study. The man could read more in Uther's moods and silences that he wished to acknowledge. There had been a warrior strength in Gaius in years past that had since gone dormant. Being the defacto monarch had re-animated it. He was respectful of his king; but not afraid. He could hold a stare without flinching; he would not be intimidated into an unthinking response.

"Perhaps you should see for yourself." Gaius said. It might have been a verbal gauntlet, thrown with an insight that Uther did not quite understand.

That day – like endless ones before and since - consumed Uther. The activity of the castle demanded his presence; he was the King and at the centre of the court. Uther was the heart and mind of Camelot – the essential core of its workings. During his absence, there had been a vacuum of decisions, of assessments and judgements that needed his resolution. He was pulled this way and that and felt this vying for his consideration – this judgemental tug of war - familiar and comforting. This was his realm and he commanded it with the ease of decades of experience. Instead of taking him off balance, it reoriented him to the pace and function of his monarchy. The habitual and intense activity crowded his mind and pushed Geraint from his thoughts. For a few hours, he forgot about her. The worry about her had subsided with Gaius' assessment; had she been near death Uther would have been told. An evening meal of some ceremony had further delayed his visit. It had been quite late by the time he walked down the near empty hallway to her room.

That night was the first night Uther visited her. He had – throughout the day – become aware of the whispers, the furtive glances, and the broken hushed snippets of gossip, speculation and rumours about Geraint. Her secret had been revealed; it had stunned the masses. Everyone had an opinion of how she came to be injured. That she had returned in the arms of their King was the final bold detail that had been drawn into startling relief. This last contained more meaning that all the rest combined. The King himself had brought her – one of the common soldiers - back to Camelot. Prince Arthur – heir to the throne and the king's only son - was the only one they thought the King would have escorted personally and arrive in such a state. They understood the Prince was of infinite importance to the King. But Geraint? What had happened that warranted such personal attention? And by the King himself? There was not a single person in the realm that did not have a story built around it all and Uther felt himself grow tense with the pressure of speculation and the burden of keeping the truth to himself.

It was after interrupting one such broken-off whispering by his sudden presence that Uther was prompted to begin revising his thoughts towards Geraint. He started to convince himself of his over-reaction to events on the battlefield. He had been overwrought – he told himself – with concern for his son. Then there had been the assassination attempt on his life. Uther forced himself to diminish Geraint's place in his universe. Her importance lessened. She was a common soldier with a talent for strategy. There were other soldiers; other strategists. There was a debt owed. It would be paid in full. Nothing more was required. His promise was to protect her and keep her safe. She would be free to live out her days in Camelot. He remained at a distance from many of his subjects. What was one more?

By the time he had reached her room, he had convinced himself that he would need only one visit and it would be out of royal obligation; that he would have done this for any of his soldiers. He willingly believed his own arguments; allured by the simplicity of denial. It was a single life; a single person – of limited consequence now. He was the King of Camelot. He had the power to ensure her future and then – keep the distance that was appropriate. Her last words to him were filled with hate and they stuck in his memory like deep, invisible slivers. No matter his efforts to do so, Uther could not extricate them and unseen, they emerged and delivered unpredictable and sharp reminders of their presence. She had been quite clear in her rejection; he was not her King. His distance from her was mandatory. But he had been hated before and would be again; he tried to believe that this time it was of no more material a concern than usual.

He entered her room and dismissed the blacksmith's daughter who curtsied quickly and shut the door behind her. The moment he turned into the room and his eyes adjusted to the soft candle light, he saw her lying there – unmoving, white and appearing almost dead. The weeks of campaigning and her terrible wounds had left her gaunt and fragile. His gasp was involuntary. His chest seized with momentary panic. His logical, hard arguments shattered and fell away until all he could hear was the beating of his pulse loud in his ears until it drowned out every sound.

Everything came back – a flood of sounds and sensations, and flashing images like quickly turned pages. She had so loved and honoured her king that she was wiling to give her life for his. In return, so ungrateful and rife with hate and suspicion, he had nearly murdered her. He owed her his life to her and moreover, he could not rid himself of his desires. He could not mute his imagination or his dreams or his thoughts; not any more. They had been allowed to surface and had been compounded by the realities of his experiences with her. His mind had built a prison for him – one where his desires had been pushed out of reach. He could do nothing but long to have them reciprocated; he ached to have Geraint - this astute and capable company – return to part of his permanent, trusted landscape. She understood him; she had capacities almost equal to his own and her presence in his world provided him a companionship so uncommon and vital that fighting for it had become an unthinking reflex. Everything about her mattered to him. Even her opinions held value and her rejection of him meant he wanted to redeem himself in her eyes – those intelligent, unblinking eyes - that had somehow stolen a part of his soul that he was powerless to retrieve.

Soundlessly, Uther approached her side and did not touch her. The light was golden and meagre but he could read the expression of pain on her face. She was suffering. The idea hit him hard in his solar plexus. Irrationally, he wished to exchange places – to bear what ever hurt in her place. There was nothing to be done except witness it and do what little he had done before. With great care, he gathered the edge of his cloak across his knee, eased himself to the bed and sat. Then he leaned forward and brushed back her hair to comfort her. She had been bathed and her hair was soft, thick and folded in between his fingers like skeins of silk. There was no recoil from his touch and he continued – tender and unrushed - coaxing the creases out of her brow until her expression was eased and she rested peacefully. Aloud, he reassured her that she was safe and free from harm. Then he repeated his promise to her.

"I will protect you." He stayed with her until the candle had burned down and sputtered, leaving the room in darkness.

And so it was that he visited every night until the day she awoke. All the while, he had been writing out her future; she would stay in the army, remain in Camelot. If she could not bear him, perhaps she would stay for his son. If she refused the army, then there was still a place in the Castle. If not the Castle, then he could have arrangements made that a nearby village would support her and give her employment, a home and a life.

Believing his presence at this point would cause her harm, he ceased his nightly visits and stayed away. The absence wore heavily on his because he could not see for himself and had to rely on others for information. He was pacing as he waited for Gaius to enter and he did not hesitated in asking the question.

"Will she fight again?"

Gaius had taken a long pause of circumspection before he answered. Then, slowly – as if he regretted and was deeply saddened by his answer - he shook his head.

"She has been badly wounded, sire. Muscle, bone, lungs. There is only so much that can be done. Her injuries coupled with her small size and restricted capacity …" Gaius had anticipated Uther's next thoughts. "No amount of finesse will be able to overcome her disadvantages."

The diagnosis did not surprise Uther but the confirmation of it terminated the most obvious future for Geraint and – however illogical – Uther's strongest hope for her. She was a soldier. It defined her in almost every way. To lose that was to change her forever. She would be the same but permanently altered. Uther understood that shift with deep empathy. Uther had had a future when he left the ranks; he became King. Yet there was a difference between forced out and leaving for more. If she could not be a soldier, then Uther would insist on the next best thing.

"She will remain in court." Uther said giving her a promising future, one full of meaning and relevance and security. He would keep her in Camelot; in court – close by – under a distant but watchful eye; Uther realized he would not be afforded closeness nor would – he thought – he encourage it. He would not insist on or take what was not offered. It would be enough to have her near, the benefit of her talents and the knowledge that she was safe and suitably cared for. It was the same concern he had for all his subjects.

"Her skills are an asset to Camelot. She need not do to teach." He elaborated, as much to himself as Gaius. "She can assist Arthur with training. Her skill at small weapons is admirable; the knights could benefit from her insights. As could Arthur. Geraint has capacities and a usefulness without being a member in the standing army. I will see to it that …"

"Sire?"

"… she has a place – a future and a home …"

"Sire?"

"… in this kingdom. She has defended Camelot – all of us - valiantly. We – I - owe it to her."

"Sire?!" This last time was sharp, as if he were trying to get Uther's attention.

"What is it, Gaius?"

Then with the attention gained, Gaius refused at first to speak. When he did at last, the words were filled with a softness, a kindness, and shaped with a sad understanding that Uther did not expect. "Sire. She does not wish to remain here."

The strike was sharp. The pit of his stomach tightened. He took a deep breath. Her hatred of him had returned undiminished and options shifted from theory to truth. She did not wish to see him. So it would be the village after all.

Uther's mission then was to find a suitable village in Camelot – where she could live out a life, have an occupation of some merit and perhaps some semblance of a community to support her. Her skills and talents would be wasted on work that she was ill-suited for, surrounded by people that were not connected to her as he was. As he thought of Geraint meeting another man and having a family, the regret of his actions returned to him. She could not be his and yet, Uther refused to think another would ever be suitable for her. It would be another price he would pay. Another would own what he could not have. He told himself he would be able to forget; he would not see her and would not be reminded. The wound would heal. From time to time, he would ask discretely for news and he imagined against logic that her attachment to another would not hurt him nor keep him awake at night with images of her sharing a bed with one who was not him. Heaven help him if this pretender ever did a thing against her. Uther would execute him personally.

When Uther did not respond immediately, Gaius filled in more detail knowing that Uther was finding loopholes in terminology. "She has said she will leave Camelot and live her life elsewhere."

"Elsewhere?" Uther said. "Elsewhere? She cannot."

The idea was preposterous; as much because he did not wish it as that Uther knew she would not survive. He closed his mind to what would happen to her. Uther felt another hard blow – lower than the first – the kind where the enemy fought without concern of fairness. The hurt continued to come in waves – and that the hurt was not finished. Not yet – not forever.

He balled his fists in frustration. Uther was the King of Camelot. He would be able to provide everything for her. If she chose not to see him, as much as it left a deep ache in his heart, he would comply. He was King. Everything in this land was his and his to have and do as he pleased and still - he remained willing to obey her wish to refuse seeing him. He would make it so. But he would not, could not see Geraint leave Camelot simply because of him.

"I understand how … strongly … you feel about the subject, sire. Believe me when I say I have tried to convince her. She is adamant. She will not remain here."

"Did she say why?" Uther needed to know. He knew but he needed to hear what she had said – it might have shifted, morphed into something new. It would form the basis of his defence. Surely there would be some middle ground he could propose that would keep her in his realm and safe.

Gaius avoided his eyes for the first time, then lifted his gaze. When he spoke, he filled the air with euphemisms and vapour. "No. I gather only that there has been some … unfortunate … misunderstanding … that has transpired. She feels it would be the most appropriate course of action for … all concerned."

"Gaius." His voice was calm. There was no benefit to anger; that had failed him once already with Geraint. All that was left was a hurt that seemed to grow deeper with every passing moment but oddly, this suffering kept him connected to her in the only way she would allow. He knew this desolate feeling would keep him company and be the replacement for her; he was grateful he had found a way for her to remain with him.

He would have the truth. "What did she say?"

"That you tried to kill her." Gaius waited. "Is that true?"

Uther wiped his face with his hand and wished again he could change history; that he could go back in time and make different choices. Another hit – hard enough to leave stars and stinging tears in his eyes.

"Yes." He was hollow. Resurfacing, he wondered if he would ever recover from this one decision. What could he ever do to make up for it? Were there no amends? He continued with his unrelenting penance and knew it was justly served. "There are mitigating – albeit inexcusable – circumstances."

"She has her mind made up, I am afraid. She will leave the court, the castle, the kingdom. She will not remain … wheresoever … you rule."

"Gaius." He said, beginning to imagine her decisions being followed. He could see her at the gates of the Castle; nothing but a satchel and perhaps a horse and without a backward look, destined for the countryside and then beyond, lands so far away they were perhaps unknown to Camelot.

"If she is no longer a soldier, she will not be able to simply disguise herself and blend into the crowds. She would be recognized and singled out. Word of her existence has already spread beyond the borders of Camelot. There are those who are angry at the lie; who want to challenge her out of spite and curiosity. She is a woman – she has no occupation, no husband or brothers to protect her and no place to go. She is frail. She will need food, shelter, money. You know as well as I what will happen." Uther took a breath, gasping for air and irrationally imploring his friend for support for this reality to be altered.

"She cannot leave, Gaius." Uther stared, feeling his chest constrict against the knots in his gut. The acceptable ending that he had insisted upon evaporated into a black, unthinkable reality. "She is in no condition. She cannot soldier. She has no family or homeland. You know as well as I what will become of a woman alone in the world."

"I believe she has faith in her ability to protect herself."

"The devil she can!" His answer was explosive; it surprised him with its vehemence. Gaius took an involuntary step backwards. How many women had they both seen in their lifetimes – victims of circumstances and powerless to escape? Women alone were ever targets for opportunists, thieves and bullies. What man could be trusted with no incentive to behave otherwise? Uther's memory of that one night with her burned in his mind. But for his own sense of honour, she would have been taken. What other man would be so temped and still refuse? What other man would even wait and instead create his own chance to have her?

"You said so yourself." Uther discovered his voice hard and tight. "She is weak. Vulnerable. Without food nor money nor occupation or kin, what else is there for a woman such as that but exploitation? Any man will have …" he broke off and halted – inarticulate with impotent frustration and the horror of her future. "… any man will be able to … take her … and do as he likes. She would live out her life as his chattel; a whore. You and I have seen countless women like that … "

Uther shut his eyes and could not stop his imagination from tearing her apart by predators; men whose only objective was to consume her youth and her gender for their own satisfaction and profit. No. This would not be Geraint's destiny. He would not permit it. He was King of Camelot and he ruled. His will would be done.

Uther tried to shake off the images and could not. Geraint's cries for help rang in his ears and then – worse – they stopped and he could see into her dead eyes after the abuse had become habitual and she had numbed herself to it. She might be able to stave off the inevitable but eventually, some one would ensnare her and demand that she be owned and enslaved. Rough, unkind hands would steal the smoothness of her skin and treat her harshly. Her world would be reduced to being at the mercy of coarse and vulgar instincts; her life would cease to be her own.

"Sire?" Gaius asked after a long silence.

Uther knew that all that was left was her imprisonment. He would throw her in the dungeons. He would guarantee that she stay. Yet she had done nothing wrong save to teach a King humility and that the idea there could be, should be, moments of mercy for all. Uther would rather have her in Camelot – shackled and chained and miserable but under his safe and hidden care than in some distant land – alone and unprotected – vulnerable to a fate he could not bear. In her cells, she could continue to hate him at her leisure and it would be the lesser of Uther's two choices. More thoughts came to him and his silent dread became a powerlessness that he could hardly bear. If he forced her to stay, it would kill her.

Gaius held his stare and acknowledged what Uther had no ability to speak.

"You know you cannot force her to stay."


	40. Chapter 40

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes. You all are so generous I can never tell you how much it means.

* * *

Chapter 40

* * *

Arthur could feel it in the very air of Camelot.

He could hear it in the whispered echoes of broken conversations and see it in furtive glances of curiosity and apprehension. It was nothing defined, nothing with form or substance but Arthur knew it as a palpable heaviness and recognized its source at once. There could only be one cause of such pervasive nervousness and unease in the kingdom – his father. Arthur understood that court was a reflection of the King and, as he wandered the Castle and reintroduced himself to the pace of life, he knew with absoluteness that all was not well with his father. Arthur was also certain that his father would be doing everything in his power thrust his discontent into a back, unseen part of his being so that neither he nor his subjects would notice. But he was the King. He was at the centre of everything and as the King lived, so lived the kingdom. There was a frigid grief that permeated the atmosphere; an emotionless rigidity that had crept into Camelot and drained it of its effortless contentment.

That night, Arthur had found Geraint asleep and had no courage to wake her. His father had been drawn into obligatory ceremony. Even Merlin – a chronically persistent presence when least Arthur wanted him – had seemingly disappeared into thin air. Merlin had noticed the very same uneasy mood and together they had speculated in that strange not-quite-equals way they had with each other. Merlin might well have been the best source of information - with his relationship as close as it was with Gaius - but answers would have to wait. In the meantime, Arthur formed more questions until at last, long after night had fallen and he stripped off his tunic and crawled into bed exhausted, he fell asleep.

The next morning, Arthur lay awake with eyes still closed. It was strange. Unfamiliar. He could not figure out the comfort, the warmth of the bed, the cleanliness of the sheets, the utter peacefulness of his surroundings. There were no groggy voices, no braying horses, no snapping of damp wood in a fire pit. Then he remembered. He was home.

He stretched and shifted under the covers with a sigh. For a few moments, he relished in the utter lack of activity and for the first time in many weeks, he could roll over and go back to sleep. There were no men to lead, no battles to fight, none of the thousands of details to be marshalled into order. He could just lie there and bask in the peace of contented leisure. Just as he exhaled in relief, there was the softest noise – a tinny strike of metal against wood - in the centre of his room. He flashed open his eyes. For a long moment, there was utter quiet and all Arthur could hear was his own breathing. Then, as he began closing his eyes, the sound repeated and Arthur sprang onto his elbows. There by his table, Merlin stood with a tray in hand, carefully unloading a meal, doing his best to be stealthy and failing.

"Merlin."

With the sound of his name, he blinked away a wince at being discovered and made a science of not looking up. Assiduously avoiding eye contact, he quickened his pace. This aversion was Merlin's choice method of feigning invisibility and it left him free to ignore Arthur.

"Merlin." He sat up and let the sheets fall away from his bare skin. A spoon clattered to the table, then a fork. "Where did you disappear to last night? "

"Oh." He said too brightly, swivelling to face him but not quite looking up. Then he twisted back and returned to his duties. "Good morning, sire. Sleep well?"

Merlin completed his transfer of food and held the tray at his side as he backed away with some speed. "Breakfast is served! I'll be off …"

"Merlin. Come back here." It was enough of a command to make his servant do just the opposite. A scramble ensued as Arthur got out of bed and raced his bare feet over cold stone floor. Just at the door, he reached out and grabbed a fistful of Merlin's tunic. It was easy to haul him back into the room, using his hold to keep his attention.

"You know something." Arthur was certain of it the moment Merlin decided to flee.

"Me?"

"Yes. You, Merlin. You disappeared last night. Where did you go?"

"Why home, naturally. Nice to sleep in a proper bed. And you're not the only one wanting a bath …"

"So what did Gaius tell you?"

Merlin looked up at him, the big eyes unblinking and innocent. He had a mastery of that expression that while it was infuriating, was fascinating to watch. It never ceased to appear almost convincing.

"What. Did." Arthur twisted the fistful of tunic until Merlin's attention was absolute. "Gaius. Tell. You?"

Merlin said nothing but sagged a bit and sighed. It was sufficient display of defeat that Arthur released him.

"What?" Arthur's voice dropped to a quiet tone, as if to coax out a secret that should not be shared.

"It's not good." Merlin shook his head from side to side as an early warning for the news to follow. He took on Arthur's softness of tone and together they began discussing the situation as if they were fearful of being overheard.

"Merlin. My father is …" Arthur tried to find the right words to describe him. " … is … grieving. I don't understand. I want to … help … him."

"Gaius said Geraint will leave the Kingdom of Camelot."

"Leave Camelot? She can't."

Merlin nodded in agreement and continued. "She and Uther have had … ah … differences and she will not bend. Gaius thinks …" Merlin lowered his voice to a whisper and checked over his shoulder for unexpected eavesdroppers.

"…Gaius thinks that Uther has become … quite attached … to her and doesn't want her to leave."

"And?"

"That Uther has broken Geraint's heart and no amount of convincing by Uther will make her stay."

"What else did he say about my father?"

"Nothing." The word came far too fast to be credible. He looked away. "Nothing at all." The reiteration ended in abrupt silence.

"Mer-lin." Arthur let the name roll out, sweetly coaxing him to cooperate with every syllable but did not receive any answer. He watched as Merlin conducted an internal debate, shifting from foot to foot, then looking here and there as if distracted by motes of dust. He waited until just the right moment, then – with a compassionate whisper – he prompted with a sincere plea. "Merlin. Tell me. It's my father."

Arthur braced himself for the revelation he knew would come – it would be a declaration of a broken heart, perhaps love of a kind, even a momentary but vengeful desire for retaliation at being rebuffed but ending with an admitted affection for Geraint that his father was powerless to change. Arthur knew all these things were true; he had known it since the Forks of Renaud.

His father's feelings were transparent to Arthur; he had seen how devastated his father had been when he realized his error, how his father had tenderly cradled her, how - thinking she may be dead - his hand shook as his fingers pressed for a pulse and the hope that drove him to his horse and home without delay. Uther Pendragon – King of Camelot – would do all that for almost no one. It was proof that Geraint had become his father's rare companion in a way that was understated and profound. She had an ease with his father, a way of communicating with him that went beyond words. They seemed to make eye contact and simply intuit the other's thoughts and were connected by a harmony of spirit – one filled with necessary opposites and passionate similarities. His father had a great affection for her and her company pleased him in a way that very few ever could. Of all people, Arthur knew that Geraint was his father's alone to have and that her absence would tear apart his soul. Arthur knew – too – that his father had lived – apart from one or two short-lasting liaisons – a life alone. His father deserved this affection, contentment – someone who could ease the terrible loneliness he must have endured all these years. Arthur knew that he would do anything for his father but he needed details before he could help.

"Tell me."

"He said … that … that … Uther will let her leave."

* * *

Arthur had taken a circuitous route to his father's chambers. It started by accident – an interruption by happenstance that yielded him the tail end of a whispered conversation - and then, when he discovered a second echo of it, he continued by design.

Camelot knew their King was not at his ease. The court was ever a mirror of the King's mood and the King's mood was dark. Arthur knew without witness that his father grieved this approaching loss. Geraint would leave them, and as he always did, his father concealed his hurt behind cold, unbending exactitude and imposed rigid control as the antidote for losing it. By the time he reached his father's room, Arthur knew well enough to proceed with caution and with vigilance. His father's disposition would be shrouded in brooding darkness.

Geraint – Merlin had said – would leave Camelot. Arthur knew this rejection must have hurt his father deeply; there was no question that his father had profound feelings for her, yet he was now willing to let her go. Regardless of how private his father kept his thoughts or how secret the specific details, Arthur knew that as his son – he alone could ask, could probe, could risk the violent reaction of a King who insisted on keeping the contents of his heart and mind hidden from all.

Arthur knocked and waited for an invitation to enter. It came promptly, with a single curt syllable. Inside, he found his father facing the emptiness outside the window, arms crossed and his chin tucked downward in a severe glower. The room was utterly silent and Arthur heard his footfalls as overly loud and disruptive. He slowed his approach so he could tread more lightly on his feet. It seemed suddenly important to be respectful and maintain the stillness.

"Hello, Father." Arthur began, neutral and waited to get a response from him. His voiced roused his father and he tilted his head slightly, just long enough to determine that it was he, then turned back and resumed staring at nothing.

"Arthur." The deep voice was hard, tight – as if to disguise other emotions. "Welcome home."

"Thank you, Father."

"How is your arm?" It was sincere but it was an effort.

"Very nearly healed," Arthur said, holding up his arm and flexing his hand and wrist to demonstrate with eyes that did not see him.

"Fine. Fine."

Arthur did not know how best to begin and so began as he so often did – boldly without much forethought – and went right to the core of the matter.

"I have heard a rumour ..."

"Indeed." His father would give him nothing.

"Yes ... well ... " Arthur knew his father had deliberately put the full the burden and choice to continue on him. He felt an odd sense of trepidation as he considered what it would mean to keep going and then said, "I can't believe it's true."

His father stood immovable, like a statue – unblinking, rigid, lifeless. Arthur had to pay close attention to confirm that he was still breathing. As the quiet wore on, he knew there would be no answer from his father. There would be nothing easy, no advantage that this King would give – not even to his only son – with this deeply private conversation. Arthur judged the level of hurt by the intensity of the silence.

Arthur continued. "Geraint intends on leaving Camelot."

The stillness was a blast of ice. There was no flinching, no reaction of any kind. Just a rigid stoicism – a fury of bitter cold that blew into every cranny of the chamber. His father remained unblinking and had retreated behind an emotionless, unreadable mask. His father, the King, Commander of Armies refused to answer or offer any insight or explanation.

Arthur waited without reward. "Is that true?" he prodded.

"Yes." The word was clipped, trim and sharp. A sword blade sliced through a beating heart.

Again, Arthur waited for a clarification that did not come. His father had become unreachable.

"Did you try to stop her?"

"Yes."

"But she doesn't need to leave, does she? Surely she can stay here ... as a soldier … or in the Castle. She is a great benefit to you in court and - "

"She refuses to stay." His father cut off the explanation as if he could not bear to hear any more. Yet it was an exchange that was more of a conversation than he had had since Arthur had arrived. It gave him hope that he could have more success if he could just keep up the momentum.

"You've talked to her? What did she say?"

"She will leave Camelot. That is all."

His father had dismissed everything – all his past, present and future with a woman that had no equal – in a few stoic words. He had withdrawn the fight and had resigned himself to the conclusion, guaranteeing that the unwanted possibility was now inevitable. This able King, this towering warrior – his father – who had capacity for valiant and relentless focus for winning every point, every battle, every objective without fail had … Arthur could hardly think it … he had simply given up. Geraint belonged in Camelot. She had meaning to Uther, to Arthur, to the soldiers – the citizens of Camelot. She was worth fighting for. She had to stay. His father could not give up. Not without a fight. It jarred him and he felt his voice rise in incredulous, disappointed anger.

"You can't just let her go." It was an accusation and Arthur knew that he had put far too much petulance and disbelief in the last of those words. It was just the tone to take if he wanted to infuriate his father. Now, it did exactly that.

His father whirled around. The eyes were fire; angry and signalled unresolved fury.

"I have no choice."

Arthur felt suddenly like a target but did not let it stop him for taking on the argument. He had his own ferocity … he would not see his father surrender. Not like this. Geraint would not just leave. Not without a fight.

"You can install her in a nearby village, then. I'm certain that she can - "

"She will leave the kingdom."

Leave the kingdom of Camelot? A chill swept over Arthur and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Impossible. Leave? Not as she was now, surely! She could not. She would be – Arthur could not finish the thought and shut his eyes from the images of destitute women he had encountered who had been desperate and luckless. Arthur had long since known what would become of a lone woman without friend or occupation or protection. Geraint would be reduced to poverty, desperation. One way or another, alone and defenceless, she would be destroyed. And his father was willing to give up and leave Geraint to this fate? He could not keep the anger from bleeding into his accusation.

"Do you have any idea what will happen to her if she leaves Camelot?!"

"Of course I do!" The question hit a nerve. His father's reaction was immediate and he roared back at him, revealing a blistering, impotent anger. Then he added with venom. "Do you think me an idiot?"

Arthur knew enough to let the question remain rhetorical but could not stop himself from continuing. "Make her stay."

"I cannot."

"You're the king!"

"Not to her!"

Silence rang in the room.

As the walls reverberated with the confession, Arthur felt oddly light headed. This was – without detail or description – at the very core of his father's grief. Geraint had rejected his father. To reject this man as King was – Arthur knew – to reject him as all things. There was no deeper hurt that Geraint could inflict upon him and his father had admitted it – admitted his powerlessness and his vulnerability and how profound his affection truly was for her. He could neither make her stay nor bear to see her go. Either choice his father made would see Geraint perish and his father punished for the choice. Forced to stay against her will, she would surely waste away; or she would leave and die in violence. His father had been defeated - forced into a position of utter disadvantage – there was no winning whatever his choice. And so – his father chose the lesser of the two losses – he would give Geraint her freedom. He would let her go and lose a part of his heart. Arthur took an involuntary step back and suddenly felt this terrible wound as his own pain. How much this must have hurt his father, he thought.

"Well ... " Arthur gasped and fished around helplessly for some solution that would bridge the gap, "She can't just go."

"There is nothing to be done." The anger had frozen over; emotion was replaced by the cold admission of unwilling surrender.

"We must do something, Father. She simply can't leave. Not without a f- "

"You will not interfere. I will not risk having you brashness make matters worse."

A knock at the door interrupted Arthur's argument.

"My lord." Gwen curtsied too quickly and continued breathlessly. She appeared frightened and looked to each of them back and forth in turn as she spoke.

"You must come quickly. Geraint is preparing to leave. Right now. And we can't stop her …"


	41. Chapter 41

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes. You all are so generous I can never tell you how much it means.

* * *

Chapter 41

* * *

Uther led. Arthur followed.

They did not speak as they travelled down the halls to her room. In retrospect, Uther should have commanded his son to remain silence but the seriousness of the moment distracted him from all but his selfish thoughts of losing her. His pulse had quickened at this unexpected turn. Geraint – he knew – would leave but he did not expect her to depart so soon. He thought they had arrived at what – after they had tersely debated all facets of the situation - could have passed for an agreement. This unwilling détente had been tenuous and wholly dependent on Uther's distance from her. He had agreed without condition and he knew now she must have realized his capitulation confirmed her advantage. This sudden desire to depart – Uther thought – was another indication of her overwhelming discontent and her sense of independence from him and his rule. He had no illusions of asking for her obedience; they had long since passed that point. Uther knew her well enough to believe this new move was designed to keep him off balance, to take from him the precious commodity of time – time to think, to plan and to arrange – to use all the resources at a King's disposal to achieve his goal. Even in her compromised state, she used her mastery of strategy to her benefit and knew with whom she fought.

Uther had more than one intense but controlled opportunity to argue with her. He had been unrelenting in his insistence but patient and careful enough to allow her freedom. She was calmer than he had expected but more stubborn and more shrewd than even he had anticipated. At one particular point, it dawned on him that he was playing chess with a mirror image of himself. It was only after Uther mentally conceded that the optimum outcome he could achieve was for was a stalemate that he could begin thinking beyond the current debate. He realized he needed to allow some time to pass without further escalation and not make anything worse.

Geraint – for her part - had been defiant and unwavering and was astute enough to know that she had manoeuvred him into a no-win position. He also knew that she had misunderstood his feelings for her as nothing more than a sovereign's desire to have his way. He could not convince her otherwise and ended the discussion with a claim that petulance was not one of his traits as a monarch. After the arguments, there was no doubt in Uther's mind that he had no choice but to let her leave. To permit her to go was contrary to every impulse, every feeling, every inclination he had. Her fate would be inevitable but Gaius was right. Imprisonment would kill her outright and arresting her would have been the only way to make her stay. He knew he could not live with himself if she died as a consequence of one more of his decisions.

What Uther needed was a lasting resolution and he had to convince himself over and over that he must just let Geraint leave. It was - he knew - the very best he could hope for in the short term. This "very best" was still one he loathed yet - he considered the distance to any of Camelot's borders needed days of travel. This allowed him time; time for Geraint to spend in within the safety of Camelot's borders. He could still ensure her safety for a time. If he were lucky, he would see Geraint return of her own volition and he would welcome her back. Letting her go was counter-intuitive but it would buy him precious time. He was patient enough to hope that an idea would surely emerge in the interlude.

When he opened the door to her rooms he strode into the centre and found her leaning heavily onto a pillar at the foot of the poster bed. Her balance was unsteady. She remained weak and unable to defend herself. Uther could have done as he pleased with her without resistance; shoved her aside, backwards with a simple push of his hand. He stood – silent and staring - and watched her pull on a second boot. Without looking, she seemed to know who was behind her and deliberately let go of the post and straightened as if determined to demonstrate strength. She wavered slightly and pressed on, reaching for her leather doublet that was laid out on the bed.

"Are you here to say goodbye?" she said.

It was calm but sarcastic and a flagrant show of disrespect that she would never have otherwise done. The opening gave him few options if he chose to answer. Yes would imply consent. No would provide her ample reason to defy him. Avoidance would be deemed an Imperial weakness. Uther took a moment to breathe. He felt his blood pressure rise in anticipation of the ensuing conflict and paused to centre himself before he responded. A reaction to the bait was the worst possible choice and he began devising a response.

"Do you need to leave now?" He said.

She was unfolding her coat and finding the sleeve with difficulty. Her wounds had left her ability to move her right side significantly compromised; her hands were clumsy and her movements uncoordinated. Uther almost stepped forward but stopped the gallant reflex to help her. If she would leave now, then damn her, let her struggle. The thought was a tiny spite – a lapse of concentration that startled him. If he were to succeed, cold objectivity would need to dominate. There was no place for affections that had kept him so distracted and off centre. With focus, he threw his passion aside and let his fierce calculating logic have its full reign.

"There is no reason to stay."

"Geraint. You are not fully healed. I have told you, this room is yours as long as you want it."

"I have no need of a room in Camelot."

Uther's internal fight between logic and passion had not yet been settled. Another moment escaped him and he found himself with anger coursing in his veins. He refused to believe she would not make this stupid, spiteful decision to leave. He would not be this hated; he would not be dismissed - not when he believed that the opposite had been so divinely true. She had loved him once. It was all so needless, wasteful and tormenting.

"Stop this." Uther said, hearing frustration seep into his voice.

Before Uther could speak again, Arthur stepped forward and interrupted their exchange. "Geraint. You can't go."

"Can't I?" She half turned. "Am I a prisoner here?"

"No." Uther glared at his son, telegraphing a command for him to remain mute.

"You are not a prisoner." Uther went on, recovering from his son's careless statement and knowing she would have him say these things – have him admit truths that confirmed the correctness of her position – simply because she could. How had she won this advantage? At every turn, she seemed to have him cornered, under her control like some straw-stuffed puppet on a string. He reminded himself that he had refused to fight her and, without that resistance, he had given her leave to speak to him like this. This advantage was nothing more than an illusion. Uther was a King and it was only with his permission, his consent to let her remain unchallenged that made her sound victorious. His affection for her was paramount. For her alone, he could be a champion. He would listen to the words she said and let their meaning wash over him without retaliation. His end game was beyond this exchange; he aimed for more than the winning of this one day. He needed only to diffuse this temporary and unexpected situation and then back way and let time ease the tension. Resolution was still possible.

"Then Arthur, I believe I can go. And I will." She put the second arm in her coat and tried to shrug on the garment. Uther had seen her do it a hundred times – it had been a minor movement, quick and efficient that ended with a snap of her collar. But this time, it was as if the leather were lined with lead. She had not even the strength to lift it halfway. She winced, stifled a gasp of pain and froze. Uther shut his eyes, unable to watch her suffer and see her fail when her pride so obviously demanded success. If it had all been different, he would have ordered out his son and folded her into his arms in a rescuing embrace. Tenderly, he would have eased away the coat and returned her to bed then remained close by until she fell asleep. Yet it all was not different; it was as it was - this untenable situation of misunderstanding, ego, and passion where Uther was forced to subsume his very reflexes. Damn her.

He inhaled, bracing himself for his next words. He had to let her go. He had to let her make this choice. If she refused to stay, then there were no words he could use to make her. Forced to remain in Camelot, Geraint would die through suffering or worse, by her own hand. Uther steeled himself to tacitly admit defeat to her.

"I understand." His voice was raspy and he was quick to say the words. "I will not stop you." The words choked him.

"Father!" Arthur scowled and sounded incredulous. "We can't just let Geraint _leave_. This is her home. It is where she belongs …"

"Arthur …" He said in ominous warning and felt his anger gather the energy of a storm. Did his son not understand he was to remain silent?

"Is it?" She asked, fumbling at the coat once more and hunching under the burden of pain.

"Don't be ridiculous." Arthur declared, oblivious of Uther's glower and pursued his argument with Geraint. "Look at you. You can hardly stand. And you want to leave?"

Uther could feel his temper bubbling and roiling just beneath the surface – building in strength and energy. "Arthur. Stop talking."

"You can't just let her walk out of here like this, Father." he said. "Geraint. You must stay."

"Your father has tried that tactic to no avail." At last, she was able to shrug on her coat. Her face went white from the effort and she wavered, fighting off a faint. The edges of her collar were folded inward but she remained bent over for a movement and ignored the adjustment. Uther stood rooted and did not help. Arthur made a small unexpected motion beside him and, thinking he might spring forward to help her, Uther held out his arm to hold him back. She would get no help from either of them.

"Yes well …" Arthur shook off his restraining grip and carried on with a boldness that infuriated him. "How about this then?" From God knows where, Arthur had produced a deck of cards in his hands and flicked the edges with a crisp flick. "Pick a card, any card."

Cards?!

"What are you doing?" Uther was incredulous. His reflex was immediate. With the speed of a viper's strike, he struck his son's injured arm. The blow landed with a crack of fist against bone. Arthur staggered back, his knees nearly buckling and he swallowed the yell but did not back down.

"Arthur. Stop this. Immediately!"

"Geraint and I ..." Arthur went on headstrong and wilfully ignoring him. "… we have a long-standing agreement for dispute resolution. I'm sure you are familiar with the game, Father. One picks a card and the other guesses. Guess right and you win. Guess wrong and you lose."

"Arthur!" Uther shook with incandescent rage. "This is - !" He could not find words adequate to express his fury.

"It's alright, Father." Arthur said with an airiness that had echoes of Merlin's idiocy. "Geraint? How about it?"

"I forbid this!"

The word "forbid" animated Geraint. Finally she lifted her head. She could hardly push forward and her entire right side sagged but she was defiant and Uther knew as soon as she reacted that she would do anything – absolutely anything – regardless of logic or consequence to her – to spite him, to wound him and to have him bear a hurt as deep as the one he had inflicted upon her. She hated him with a singularity of purpose and all at once he understood how much he had wounded her. The realization froze him. His heart stopped and his insides became a fire of wrath and fury – directed at both himself for his epic failure in judgement and at Geraint for her unbending stubbornness.

"I accept." She said to him, not Arthur.

His son thusly encouraged took a step forward and splayed out the cards. Before Uther could interfere, she selected a card and drew it close. As she glanced down at the card, Uther could not understand the expression on her face. The blankness demanded by the situation was impossible for her. It might have been a sudden wave of pain and she took a slight step back. The edges of her lips whitened from the pressure to suppress a reaction.

"It's up to me to guess, is it?" Arthur was cavalier. "Well. It's one in fifty two. You were lucky with it last time. How about the Jack of Clubs?"

Geraint's face hardened. She was angry and speechless. She looked first to Arthur, then to Uther, as if this might some how be his doing. The hate in her eyes had no end.

Furious, she flicked the card at Arthur like a throwing star and it hit him in the chest. The card floated to the floor face up. It was the Jack of Clubs.

"You win." She hissed in defeat.

Uther knew that it was not over. This had resolved nothing. She still hated him. She would stay in Camelot out of honour but the moment had tipped the balance. Nothing could ever be recovered now. It could never be the same again. All the effort to save this had been wasted and all Uther had left was the memory of a single night spent alone with her. Uther had been equally defeated by the card and momentarily he hated her back with a capacity indistinguishable from hers. He relished in the powerful surge this emotion gave him. He flexed and felt his body transform to unbending steel. Blazing anger coursed through his veins and his heart beat as a drum to war. She would have it back as she had given him and he delivered the words sharply, intending them to be the deep and blows he knew they would be.

"We have no need to see each other again." Uther said and walked out.


	42. Chapter 42

TITLE: Solus et Fidelis Alone and Faithful

AUTHOR: Inukshuk

SPOILERS: None

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Merlin" are the creations and property of Others, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

FEEDBACK: yes please … writers need food. Suggestions, comments constructive criticism always welcome. As ever thank you to everyone who writes. You all are so generous I can never tell you how much it means.

* * *

Chapter 42

* * *

Geraint was in the middle of the bed alone with her knees bent to her chest and wept with such energy that she had ceased to make any sound. Sweat had started to soak the small of her back and to trickle along the centre of her chest; her stomach ached with the effort of remaining silent. The place where she lay had become damp and uncomfortable with tears and saliva but she possessed no capacity to move.

Everything had come undone.

Her body, her mind, her wounds were all were alive and raw with pain and the more she tried escape her suffering, to stifle her weeping, the less she could contain herself. It was the release of compounding anguish; her life led apart and in secret now exposed, the pain of a near-fatal wound, the loss of her vocation as a soldier and the war over her future fought against a man who had no idea that he owned her heart and treated her as if he would not care if he did. He dominated her because he could and battled because he always won.

She had thought she could remove Uther from her existence and that she had erased him from her mind and soul. She had done everything in her power to forget him and free herself from his hold over her. But she discovered with this new wound that he remained with her – not as a faint ghost or a dissipating fog but a roaring storm of thunder and savage lightening. It was always Uther. It would be ever so.

She could not eradicate him or forget him or run from him and that left her stripped bare and without defence. He could do what he would with her and she would have no choice but to comply. Uther, the King of Camelot – out of habit and expectation of getting what he desired, wanted to make her stay here – to assuage a nagging guilt that – like a speck of dirt – he wished picked off and removed from memory. He did not avoid her humiliation; he sought it out and had it deliberately arranged. It was the same lesson he taught everyone who defied him. He was King; his word was law. He insisted on being obeyed with a fierce exactitude. Transgressors would be punished. In her case, he had even colluded with Arthur – her one and only possible ally against him - to arrange it all.

She had thought nothing would ever hurt more than the moment Uther named her a traitor drew his sword to kill her.

She was wrong.

_We have no need to see each other ever again._

She could hear him yet; cold with hate and disdain. His dismissal was complete, final and filled with disgust. He had won. He had won everything. It was his will that she stay and his will would be done. Then – having won, having wrung every last possible victory from her – he simply walked away – as if all the energy he had expended to make her stay was nothing more than an exercise of intellect; one mind against another.

The door to her room opened and Geraint pressed herself further into the bed and held her breath hoping that she would be invisible to whoever had arrived. Footsteps approached, then a gasp and quickened paces.

"What's happened?" Gwen bent over her, then sat on the bed and crept closer. Fingers were combed through her hair, drawing strands from her face.

Geraint could not speak; she could not move. Grief consumed her. This hurt – this unrelenting – inescapable hurt had crippled her. Her tears infuriated her – they were a feminine weakness she had long since mastered in her disguise but now her frustration prompted them to flow more freely.

"Geraint. Tell me. What's happened?" Gwen shook her shoulder momentarily to get her attention but Geraint was beyond consolation. "Whatever it is, I can help."

Reflexively comforting, Gwen began stroking her back and Geraint became dizzy from the memories long ago of a loving mother. The face had long since been forgotten but the feelings of security and affection came back as a deafening echo. She had not felt the loss of it until now as Gwen surrounded her with reassurance and protection. Geraint still could not speak and felt her sobbing shake her entire body. Her muscles strained from the breathless effort to contain herself. Without air, she took a sudden gulp and it wracked her – releasing pain that radiated through her body.

"Geraint. Please. You are going to make yourself sick …"

How could she ever explain it? Any of it? The only person who would understand was Uther. He understood the very scale of what he had done to her – consciously, with full and absolute intentions – like he did everything in his life.

_We have no need to see each other ever again._

"What happened? Did they hurt you? Please. You must tell me." She sounded worried, anxious for details. She knew Gwen wanted to understand so she could untangle the complicated mess and begin helping. The longer the silence, the more Gwen sought out answers to what had transpired. In delayed, one word responses Geraint gave Gwen explanations to her stream of questions. No, she was not suddenly ill. Yes, Uther and Arthur caused this. No, they had not hurt her physically. Yes, she would stay in Camelot. No, there was nothing anyone could do.

"Gwen?" It was Arthur, calling out to her at a distance. Geraint imagined him at the door, asking for an invitation, and not quite inside. "What's going on?"

"You. You did this." Gwen said darkly, having gleaned just enough information to lay blame with non-specific accuracy. "You …" she took a deep breath and said the next with derision. "And your _father_."

"I came back to … Gwen, you must believe me. I meant no harm … Geraint will remain in Camelot – it's the right place for her. Surely you can understand that … she would not survive..."

Gwen expanded her protective mothering wings and let her instincts take over. She went on the attack. "What did you _do_?"

"Nothing!"

"Look at her!" Her voice was a harsh whisper and her tone unforgiving. She was livid and not even the Crown Prince would make her hold her tongue. Geraint let the argument wash over her, feeling adrift and realizing she was losing her hold on consciousness. "What did you do? You did something!"

"Geraint and I … we … reached an agreement … for her to stay …"

He was editing his comments for Gwen. What he had done was use Geraint's own strategy used against her. Arthur had seized upon her weakness and had taken full advantage of her distracted focus on trying to thwart Uther. She was aware at the time that her emotions were making her weak and open to attack but it was a calculated risk with Uther; she just did not think the attack would come from Arthur. She knew as soon as she had seen the card what Arthur had done and how Uther had cleverly played out the scene. She was furious at herself for not recognizing the set up of her own invention in time for her to stop it.

" … and my father … I have never seen him so …" Arthur's voice dropped and the words became muffled, as if he had just wiped his face with his hands. " … Oh, Gwen …" Geraint could hear the hollowness in his voice as he confessed the truth, sounding profoundly remorseful and without remedy. "… my father is _furious_ …"

"Get out." She said flatly.

"Gwen …" Arthur chastised, "Let me finish …"

"Get out!"

Geraint did not hear the rest. There was no need. Whatever was said would not change the present. Uther had every weapon at his disposal and she had none. All she had wanted was to leave hear - this place called Camelot - and him. She had wanted to stop loving him. She wanted him gone from her sight. She wanted his voice nothing but a forgotten and distant echo. She wanted his opinion not to matter and his humour not to be her concern. She wanted to eradicate him from all her senses and found the more she tried, the more permanent he had become. He had nearly killed her and that was not enough. Now he wanted to torment her - and so he did. He had campaigned hard to have her stay and she knew she had to refuse – it was her only hope. That one hurt of Uther's had nearly killed her. It was enough that she survived and she had vowed she would not let him have a second chance to harm her. Ever. But Geraint now understood that it was impossible to just stop loving someone and that to love as she did was to surrender the infinite capacity to wound. Whether he knew it or not, Uther would always have that power over her and she had no choice but to submit.

Geraint had tried but in attempting to leave, she had made it worse. As Uther always did when thwarted, he redoubled his efforts. It was enough for him to know his will was being challenged and that - for the glorious, omnipotent King of Camelot – was all. He simply must have his way. This time - he conspired with his own son and together they made a mockery of her. Their collusion was the final humiliation and still - it was not quite enough for Uther. He needed the fullness of his revenge - played out in front of his son - Arthur - whom she had trusted and protected with her life – an ally whose ties Uther needed to shatter to regain his complete dominance over her. When finally Uther had won it all, he took one more moment and crushed her - forcing her to forever remember with whom she had fought. He had dismissed her - permanently and for all time - from his sight. He would have his way in all its facets and she knew she meant nothing to him.

And still, she loved him.

I t broke her heart.


End file.
