Long live the king [3]
XXI.
Arthur feels slightly hopeful. By now, his father has more or less forgiven him for his "foolishness" earlier this year. The village with fire-incident is like a distant memory and the prince tries more and more to forget. By each day that passes, he becomes more and more engulfed by princely duties, training his knights, and talking with Gaius.
The old man has proven to be a helpful, subtle spy at the lady. Pendragon's own precious gemstone. Arthur is trying to avoid disaster, think ahead of the woman. When would she strike again, and how could he prevent it? A knife or magic or Morgause or an army, what'd be her weapon of choice - and the king, himself or whole of Camelot, what'd be her target?
It is useless however to make Uther listen, he'd tried so many times, the old resolute man is pigheaded to the point Arthur nearly beats life out of his startled knights during every session beneath heavy sunlight and splashing rain. No one complains. When he's looking or listening, that is.
XXII.
Another patrol has been found, lifeless pooling red on the forest floor. The searchers return crestfallen, eyes bleak with temporary sorrow although their faces are guarded. The king slumps on his throne and it's clear now that he's an old weary man with a wary mind and hardened heart: years of distrust wears down his shoulders.
"Are you sure? No survivors?...the knights?" Fractions of phrases and words, difficult to release.
Arthur is downcast, his father can see grief in his eyes, but his face is set stern. "Dead…all of them. Cenred's men trapped them in an ambush. There were fresh tracks there as well…we could not find any signs of sir Leon." Leon is one of his best knights, older and more experienced than the others – he's a good man, too, a fighter, survivor, advisor, friend. Uther knows this too, and it's a great loss if the man is dead, but Arthur refuses to despair. "Father, we could send a search party. Chances still are that sir Leon is alive; he could have escaped."
But the chances are slim. A fraction of tiny, because Leon wouldn't back down from a fight, give up, flee. He'd fight to the death or till capture. That's another possibility – but Arthur doubts that Cenred's men would be able to capture sir Leon and stay alive for long. At least that's what he hopes. Survive, he sends at thought towards the ceiling, be alive.
There's something brewing. The court can sense it and worry has begun to slip down through the lower levels of the city. War is coming. Last time, the army led by Cenred, was pushed back – not fully defeated. Besides, there's still Morgana (and Morgause) to worry about, although only Arthur knows about that. No doubt, if the women's minds yet work as they did last time, they plan on something that'll endanger the life of whole Camelot, the citizens as well, but mainly him and his father. The king. Uther is still so blind… But Arthur doesn't speak. About it. Yet.
Uther sinks back into the throne – cold empty wood – even further and looks smaller than Arthur remembers him being. "Of course…of course. There's still a chance. Gather your men immediately."
XXIII.
She's sick. Nothing major, nothing sleep cannot wear off, Gaius assures, but the castle is worried. (Arthur isn't.) There are voices abuzz everywhere and the king sits by her bedside.
It's a sudden illness, striking her just a few days ago, crumbling her to the knees or so it looks like: the king, the king is anxious, leaning on her chamber door and hovering nearby all the time, with Gaius beside him, a reassuring voice: "The lady will recover." And the king says: "She must."So precious, delicate, fragile.
Arthur happens to walk by when he hears their lowered voices drift over the cracked-open doorway, into the empty hall, beyond which Morgana lies asleep, drifted into dark clouds of tranquility. He cannot help staying, silent and listening, because something heavy is tearing at his father's words and his heart, his heart tells him something is going on.
"…something you must know. I fear that…that she already knows, Gaius. I am not sure how but she knows. It is important that this is kept secret between us, convince her not to speak of it…but I worry for her…And if anything were to happen to me, or Arthur…"
Yet, his father hasn't called for him,Arthur. This is something his ears are not meant for, but Arthur stays anyway, shying in the shadows where he's not detected. He can spot the two men by Morgana's bedside. Chest heaving in the darkness: when hiding like this, his wheezing breath is as loud as ever, hissing through his lungs: he tries not to breathe at all.
"Sire." Not a demand nor a question. A soft urging to continue, go on, You can tell me (it'll be a secret). The king hesitates, eyes solemn and frowning. Not like he's displeased, but apprehensive, and Arthur's mind is miles behind registering all this as Uther speaks:
"…Morgana is my daughter."
XXIV.
A haze of voices settles into silence.
His senses doesn't return slowly and gradually in a blur, but quickly, abruptly, as he gasps and fills dry lungs with heavenly air. He feels…allured and blessed. Alive. Heartbeat, heartbeat, heartbeat.
Even if his memory is obscure – smoke, arrows, ("Ambush, ambush!"), glinting swords drawn, a horse crashing to the ground with its rider, the shrilling shriek and then the flash of a sword, bloodstains everywhere melting onto his cloak ("Run! They're too many!") - he remembers it. Intense pain unexpectedly stopping and darkness with tiny specks of light in it followed by deafening silence and no senses at all.
… dying.
The man, confused now, lifts a hand and looks at it – no damage, no blood, no scars. Carefully, he inspects his face, chest, arms, legs, body, but there's no injury – nothing at all, no trace of old or new battles. Someone's taken off the layers of his armour and red cloak, he's only wearing a white tunic with the king's crest on it, and is perched on a table-like slab of rock. Candles lit up the cave warmly and voices are nearby, but he cannot hear what they are saying.
He doesn't panic. He should, but doesn't. No, he's grateful and calm. He has an inkling of what people have saved him, yet he cannot feel hate or fear: because the druids…the druids are peaceful people, despite the years of plague that others had descended upon them. It is odd, but they are, it's something in their spirits maybe, in their hearts.
The smell of torchwood drifts about and voices nears the site, light footsteps on stone, echoing on solid cave walls, roughly edged, the ceiling like an ancient temple of prayed by nature decorated. The knights blinks and looks around, vision clearer than ever, and sees a cloaked figure materialize by an entrance not far away. The man smiles a bit, kindly, and tells him to relax – "We mean no harm" – and the knight asks, "Why did you save me?"
XXV.
Rain stopped hours ago, the sky's cloudy and light. It's in sight now, the city, and he pulls the cloak closer and thinks, Don't look at me, I'm invisible.
When he finally crosses the gates, his feet has never felt so light. He could practically scream with joy and dance on the step, armed with the knowledge that soon, soon, he's home again, because home is where the heart is; home is with Arthur.
XXVI.
Arthur's heart beats in his throat, through his skin, through the shock of his core: 'Morgana is my daughter,' Uther has just said, 'Morgana is my daughter' - Morgana is my sister, my sister, sister - Arthur feels the truth tremble in his hands and just like when realizing that Merlin is magic, he doesn't know how to react.
The wall is unsteady beneath him and he pushes up against it to hide as footsteps draws near, the king's words ringing in his ears and Gaius silent and understanding as always. He wonders if the old men can hear his thoughts vibrate through the stone between them.
Gaius and Uther leaves the chamber and Morgana to rest. Not noticing him. His stillness. Irregular, twisted pulse in his neck, arms, bones. It can't be. But it is anyway.
Sister.
XXVII.
As day crumbles into nightfall, a single man returns; the king has barely managed to order a search party and quickly redraws the request when the blonde knight enters the castle, tired but alive, clothing bloodied but no injuries on his face. The man is in awe, something great shining in his eyes, and in wonder he tells of how he was saved by druids, druids of all people: those who should despise Uther and his men the most.
A life saved from the brink of death. Dozens of others lost. It's unfair, but it's not that which startles the king.
Arthur wears a stone mask, determined to not let Uther know he's overheard his words with Gaius. He acknowledge his father as usual, reacts in a timely manner and locks out the thoughts. Tries to, at least. (But does Morgana know too? ... She's been pale as a ghost lately. And Uther mentioned…Yes. She knows.)
"Arthur, sir Leon – I have a mission for you."
Morgana watches, unseen and unheard, from a corner, taking note of every word from the king's lips. Everyone else thinks she's still bedridden and ill and possibly unconscious, but the king's words are imprinted on the forefront of her mind.
XXVIII.
A frenzied knocking on the door interrupts the man's work and he gingerly puts down a few delicate bottles and tools, shouting, "I'm coming, I'm coming!" to whoever is behind that door. Young people, always so stressed. It has to be someone young. Maybe Guinevere? She's been looking so distraught as of late, poor girl.
He opens it to reveal a cloaked man - at least, that's what Gaius supposes it is - who hurries inside frantically whispering, "Gaius! God, it's been forever, is everything all right?" Long, pale hands slightly roughened at the edges reach out, grasping the handle of the door to close it.
The face is shadowed and the voice lowered so much it cannot be recognized. Eyes narrowing, Gaius looks at the cloaked figure, demanding; "Do I know you?"
The cloaked man whips around, and now the old man can hear his breathing, quick like from a long run, and then he finds himself staring at a very familiar face, weary and thin and cobalt eyes marked by dark rings caused by fatigue. Anxious yet relieved. The boy looks strangely old.
Without thought, the old man pulls his young charge into a crushing embrace, greatly relieved: Merlin hasn't had physical human contact for months and shudders at first, then accepts the arms, it's nice to be welcomed so abruptly and gods, he's missed his guardian-come-father so much.
"But what are you doing here? If anyone finds out-" Gaius says, voice hushed, but nearly shouting at the same time. Dread and hope mix on his tongue.
"I know, Gaius, I know," Merlin says tiredly and sinks down to sit on a nearby chair. Now the old man sees, his clothes are torn, and there's a graze on his left cheek. Briefly the young man glances at the door, the windows (blue eyes turn golden as the shutters are closed) and the room falls into shadow at the lack of sunlight. "Do you got any food? I'm positively starving."
"What about the guards? How did you get in here?"
Even as he demands answers, the physician scrambles through some cupboards and finds drink and bread, and promises to make some stew. The food is simple, but the boy eats greedily and is forced to slow down and take deep gulps of fresh water, to not strangle himself: thirst and hunger are quenched for a moment. When he's satisfied, the boy smiles a bit in thanks – not a wide grin with twinkling eyes like before leaving Camelot behind, but now he's more content and safe than he's been for months. He's back. Back. Home. If it were possible, the glow of his heart would shine through his skin.
"It was a bit troublesome, yeah, but I'm here and that's what matters. Don't worry, I'm not follower or anything," Merlin says, details will take too much time; he's going to leave soon, him being here endangers Gaius and Merlin would never want him hurt for his sake. "Is everything all right? You have to tell me, please, Gaius. About Camelot, Uther and Arthur and Morgana. Is she still here? And Arthur, is he all right, the idiot hasn't gotten into trouble has he? It's been months after all, please don't tell me he's dead or something stupid. Has…"
"One question at the time. Please, Merlin, calm down." A look is sent over the floor at the door, but there's no sound or movement behind it: it's safe for now. "We are all right; there's been surprisingly less trouble than usual. The prince has been crestfallen as of late and also more suspicious than usual…and I agree with him to be cautious. Yes," Gaius interrupts before Merlin can begin uttering the hundred questions that lay on his tongue; "we are surveying lady Morgana, as subtly as possible of course. (Yes, believe it or not, Arthur can be subtle.) The king refuses to acknowledge that she might be a threat. Quite the opposite, he is extremely protective of her, more than usual. I fear…We both fear that she will soon strike again, taking advantage of the king's weakness for her."
"What do you mean, 'more than usual', did something happen? You said nothing out of the ordinary happened! An accident? Oh god, Arthur has gotten poisoned or enchanted or something (again), hasn't he!" He begins to grow bloody frustrated with all the side-tracking conversations.
"No, Merlin, the prince is unhurt and no magic has been used on him."
"Well, what is it then?"
The old man looks at him closely, like trying to weight options before realizing that the young man before him – a boy, one who should have a whole life ahead without these burdens – deserves to know. It's vital for Merlin's comfort and Arthur safety, which is everything to Merlin, the meaning of his life, Destiny. "It is a secret the king has kept to himself all these years and I only heard of it mere days ago, when Uther finally revealed it to me in person. He's worried that the lady knows or suspects it herself. But Arthur doesn't know. Merlin, Morgana isn't the king's ward."
This wasn't what he's expecting to hear (maybe an injury or an upcoming battle or conflict, but this?). So he leans in further, the solemn look on Gaius' face unsettling him. Whatever it is, it's bad news. Or at least not very good news.
"Uther is her father."
XXIX.
Sir Leon, loyal to the end, bows and accepts their mission, only a handful of well-placed questions answered and the sword by his side sworn to aid.
"Very well, sire," Arthur says, bowing. "We shall leave immediately."
The druids will not be happy to see us.
But, the prince has something he must see to first.
XXX.
Her face lights up at the sight of him, so unexpected, in the dusk. Happy but slightly nervous and bumbling about, muttering apologizes for the mess (there hasn't been time to clean for days, she's so busy at the castle) but Arthur silences her with a smile, for the first time in weeks embracing her, arms around her shoulders. She's warm and he's cold – inside, like ice churning in his stomach – but Gwen melts it with her presence and assurances. When he reveals he must go and is vague about returning, she saddens and breath quickens and hands grasps his cloak, pleading Stay, stay, and he does - a little while longer, that's all he needs, what she needs.
"Come back, please, Arthur." She's rarely this weak but she's afraid, this sense of something terrible will happen looming above her, and Arthur feels it too.
"I will. I swear to you."
"Arthur I…" Briefly silencing, she bites her lip, but the prince looks at her in earnest and the fears blow away. This isn't the prince, this is simply Arthur and he's a man who she can, no matter what, trust, for her heart tells her so. "It's the lady Morgana. I do not mean any offence or harm, I swear and I, I've had much faith in her for a long time and it's hard to say this. But she's changed. I don't know what to do. It's almost like…" Those last words aren't uttered, but both think them anyway, there's no need to form them on the tongue.
"I know. Be careful, all right?" It should be the other way around, because Camelot is safe. It's where one should be safe, anyhow. "If you can…avoid her."
Gentle words spoken in the night: their conversation fade, they are content in each other's arms where it's warm. This is all they have, time and place and each other: every second ticking by toughens their grip. They do not wish to separate, not now. They've found each other again. For a moment, lips brush, the faint whisper of a kiss when they cannot promise with words what they wish to say.
Sir Leon is waiting outside and pretends not to know what's going on, pretends there are no feelings between the prince and the maidservant.