A/N: I was asked to provide a cast list of sorts so kids/couples won't cause confusion:
Arthur&Gwen: Lucan (boy, age 8), Brian (boy, age 5.5), Bethan (girl, age 4).
Merlin&Freya(pregnant): Marya (girl, age 6.5).
Tristan&Isolde: Istan (boy, age 9).
Gwaine&Enid(pregnant): Gareth (boy, age 2).
Lancelot&Morgana(pregnant): Nenna (girl, age 3).
Leon&Elena have 9-year-old twin boys, unnamed; Percival is unmarried; Elyan's status is going to come up later on.
…..*…..
Chapter 3: Kings and Councilors
Merlin was a bit out of breath when he reached the door of Arthur's chambers, and knocked.
Many were the times he'd walked right into the prince's room, and also long gone. Even if it hadn't been for the fact that Arthur now shared privacy with his wife, Merlin would never feel comfortable bursting into the chamber he first associated with Uther. Even after ten years and half as many changes in decoration and organization overseen by Gwen, there was always that catch of uncertainty that prevented the familiarity.
"Come," Arthur said, and Merlin couldn't discern his mood through the door.
He pushed it open far enough to admit his head and one shoulder. "Arthur?"
The king was seated in a high-backed chair padded with a white-gray wolf's pelt, leaning forward a bit, one knee bent and the other nearly straight in front of him. The wince Merlin barely glimpsed was replaced swiftly with the sort of glad surprise the king always tried to suppress, and couldn't quite.
"Merlin," he said, his tone characteristically blending pleased relief and a faint accusing impatience. Then, "What is that on your face? You've replaced your scarf with a dead muskrat?"
Unoffended, Merlin laughed, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. He was relieved to see that neither Arthur's trip nor Morgana's visit presented a joke-banishing crisis.
"No, I just wanted to see if it would make me look as pretty as you," he returned.
Arthur leaned back, leaving the one leg straightened out in front of him, draping his elbows over the arms of the chair, lazily contented and fighting the half-smile. "No one looks as pretty as me."
Merlin decided it was the better part of valor to leave Arthur's wife out of it. "Well," he carried the argument, "Gwaine thinks –"
"We let Gwaine think that because it keeps the peace," Arthur interrupted.
"No, it doesn't." Merlin grinned.
Arthur considered. "No. It doesn't." Merlin pushed away from the door, crossing the room to Arthur's side. "How was your trip?" the king continued. "Have you finally managed to cure the druids?"
"Yes, but the disease was magic-related, and I wasn't able to establish a cause."
He held out his hand, which Arthur took, but instead of giving it a shake of greeting, he pulled the king to his feet, nudged him to turn and back up, motioned him to sit on the table. Arthur gave him a stubborn look that said he was inclined to pretend he didn't understand what Merlin wanted, or at least to refuse.
A look which slipped into a weary sort of recognition that Merlin was just as stubborn as a friend and even more so as a physician, and would get his way eventually, and it saved Arthur time and effort to cooperate at the beginning. Merlin flashed him a grin that was understanding and triumphant, both, as Arthur lifted himself to sit on the edge of the table, and Merlin knelt in front of him to begin rolling Arthur's right trouser-leg.
"So you're going to want to hole yourself up in the library to research?" Arthur said, wincing and adjusting his position as the material pushed over his knee.
"Mm. Eventually." He hadn't forgotten the druid's message of approaching war, or whatever brought Morgana and Lancelot. "Did this swell right away?" he asked.
"No, it was just stiff after I twisted it. It was swollen when I woke up this morning."
Merlin positioned his hands to gently surround the inflamed joint and spoke the spell, "Acolian-leoht." He felt the chill faintly, as he would have felt a flame held in the palm of his hand as a flicker of comfortable heat. Arthur hissed a breath through his teeth, then slowly relaxed.
But it would take a moment for the swelling to subside sufficiently for him to observe the placement of bones, to feel the softer tissue at rest and in movement.
"What did you do to it?" Merlin asked, shifting his grip fractionally.
"Jumped down a ravine."
He gave his king his best Gaius-look. The raised eyebrow, the unspoken, Really? how foolish… "How far down?"
"Ten feet. Maybe twelve."
Merlin finished the spell and held the back of Arthur's boot in one hand and concentrated on the components of his knee with the other, slowly straightening the leg, then bending it back under the table, alert to any noises or sensations – popping, grinding, or locking – that were abnormal. With open injuries it was quite straightforward, mostly, visually he could see what damage had been done. This was a bit more delicate.
"It can bear your weight, right?" he said. "You haven't lost any sensation, have you? It doesn't feel like this foot is colder than the other?"
Arthur leaned casually back on his hands, released the breath he'd been holding. "Yes, no, and no."
"How did you land?" Merlin said. "Was there an impact, just a twist? Was your foot planted?"
"Hells, Merlin," Arthur said irritably, "I wasn't thinking about my knee, I was preoccupied with not dying."
Merlin rolled his eyes. "It could be important. How did you land?"
"On another person."
"What?"
Arthur's expression was defensive. "It was an enemy."
"So I should congratulate you for that? What were you doing?"
"Chasing bandits near the southeastern border. It doesn't hurt much, just aches once in a while. Listen, Merlin, do you think you could…"
"Does it hurt in your ankle, or in your hip at all?" Merlin interrupted. "More when you're going up stairs, or down?" He thought maybe it was a ligament, either the anterior or the lateral, maybe a bit of damage to both, but not torn all the way through, that was a good thing. With the swelling gone down, he could use rosemary to increase blood flow to promote healing in the joint, he could bind it tightly for a bit and they could elevate it while Arthur lay flat on his back to rest – oh, wait.
"I wouldn't normally say this to you," Arthur said, instead of answering. "But do you think you could just heal it with magic? I may not have time to wait it out – what Morgana sees is usually imminent."
War in the White Mountains… and with Arthur asking… "Ic the thurhhaele thin licsare." Magic hummed from his fingertips, warmed in a small sphere around the king's joint to accomplish the healing, repairing the internal tears. "You'll still have to be careful on it for a while, just to be sure everything's healed properly…"
Merlin stepped back as Arthur eased off the table from a sitting to a leaning position, and reached down to unroll his trouser-leg. As the king straightened, Merlin watched him realize that he had not bathed or changed his clothes after his journey; his blue eyes were keen.
"Another vision," Arthur said. "A great battlefield, the banners of Camelot… but you're not really surprised."
Merlin leaned his forearms over the back of the companion chair at Arthur's table, dropping his head to rub with his fingertips. "I was given a message from a druid seer… probably much the same thing. At least, I hope so." He let out a rather grim snort. "Otherwise we're heading into two wars."
"That would be too much of a coincidence." Arthur sounded more hopeful than confident in the assumption. "Did the seer happen to tell you when, or where, exactly?"
Merlin shook his head. "The White Mountains, only."
"That's a lot of land," Arthur sighed. "I've called a council meeting for this afternoon – Morgana wanted to rest, between the baby and the nightmares she's not been sleeping well, so you'll have time to eat and clean up and –" He stopped, cocking his head slightly to study Merlin.
"And shave?" Merlin guessed the end of Arthur's comment, and gave a low laugh at himself, rubbing his jaw. "My mother said it makes me look like Aurelian."
"It does, a bit. Can you… do me a favor?"
"Of course," Merlin said easily, but couldn't help a bit of a dig, "my liege."
Arthur made a brief face at him. "Before you wash and change and all, will you come with me? There's something I want to show you."
Merlin was curious. Something so important it couldn't wait, yet had only occurred to Arthur. Something that had to do with the way Merlin looked, at the moment?
"Sure," he said, pushing upright. But Arthur made no move to follow.
"And could you – put the hood of your cloak up. And roll your sleeves to the elbow." Arthur watched him obey critically, then gave a small satisfied smile. A smile Merlin had seen before, a crafty smile that meant he was pleased with a clever tactical element of a new plan. Merlin had learned over the years, sometimes it was better not to ask.
Didn't stop him from asking, though. "What now?"
"Come with me."
As they walked the corridors – Arthur with his gait once again confident to the point of arrogance with his knee healed, and Merlin a half step behind and beside – he began to guess at Arthur's plan. He'd been too focused on reaching his king when he arrived, to pay attention to the people around him in the citadel, but now he noticed reactions. The servants startled, the occasional guard stiffening slightly in alarm, before recognition of him eased the alert.
And when Arthur headed down the stair to the dungeon, Merlin concluded that there was a prisoner, maybe captured on the border, that Arthur wished to intimidate, probably subtly since he knew it made Merlin uncomfortable that the fact of his power could be interpreted as a threat, in certain circumstances.
"How many times were you locked in a cell, here?" Arthur tossed over his shoulder conversationally as they descended.
"Twice," Merlin said. "While you were fighting Valiant. And… while you were fighting Sigan's soul in Cedric's body."
"Hm," Arthur said. "I was, only once." Merlin almost missed the next stair, in surprise, and Arthur raised an eyebrow at him over his shoulder. "Did I never tell you this? Coming back from the Forest of Balor with that flower-antidote for the poison in Bayard's gift chalice that you drank from. My father was upset that I disobeyed, and was going to teach me a lesson. Bayard was under arrest at the time as well, until it was decided that he was innocent in the affair… he was kept just through here." The king paused before a great iron-bound door at the foot of the stair. "Interesting."
"What is?" Merlin asked, following him through, as two guards seated at a small square table just to the right inside the door stood to attention.
"At ease," Arthur told them. "Anything to report?"
Merlin glanced around the room – a series of window-slits let in sufficient sunlight without presenting an avenue of escape; there were shutters and a small hearth-and-chimney in the inner wall, if the nights got too cold.
Six cells, though only one appeared to be occupied, and all roomier than Merlin's room behind the physician's chambers, when he was Gaius' apprentice. Similarly furnished, though – no dirty straw and open buckets, here – clean and dry and airy. Beds in the cells, narrow and hard but equipped with barracks-quality blanket and pillow, even an extra chair – thick, heavy, and solid. No delicate legs or spindles to snap suddenly for a weapon to catch an attendant by surprise.
All in all, better than some peasants had it.
"Nothing, sire," the nearer guard said, looking a bit uneasy, but determined, around the nose-guard descending from the center of his conical helmet. "The prisoner was dissatisfied with his breakfast – we've only just finished cleaning it up – but your instructions were to provide necessities, not to offer amenities."
There was the hint of a question in his tone.
Arthur nodded. "Yes, you did right. We're not running a tavern for his convenience or comfort. Food and water in decent supply, and if he wastes it, that's his loss."
Merlin saw the sole occupant of the room-size cell shift, and knew the king had been overheard – Arthur probably had intended that.
What else did he intend?
Arthur turned his attention to the prisoner, sauntering closer to the wall of iron bars. Merlin drifted along just behind him, silent until he figured out exactly what Arthur was thinking. They'd fought and planned and strategized alongside each other for many years; he trusted his king and didn't need have to have every detail explained in advance to follow a plan. And Arthur knew that, too.
"Come to gloat, Your Highness," the prisoner rasped. "You can't do this, you know. My queen will –"
"Be a lot more willing to listen to reason, I hope," Arthur said.
There was a pause, and Merlin used the moment to study the man. A hard, sullen expression behind the cropped hair and near-white beard – a fighter, and an older one, which meant some experience. Uninjured, which meant some skill. And here in Camelot – which meant he had some value to Arthur. The man slouched on the end of the bed, ignoring the chair. It looked to Merlin like he'd ignored the wash-water and soap provided, too, as well as breakfast. He looked an uncivilized barbarian, but there was pride and arrogance in scorning provision while imprisoned. Merlin wasn't at all sure he would waste the chance to eat or wash if he was locked up, himself.
"Merlin," Arthur said.
Not to him, exactly, but to the prisoner. And in an odd tone of voice. Odder still was the man's reaction.
The prisoner straightened, his dark eyes glittering in the unwashed tangle of hair and skin that was his face.
"Merlin," Arthur said again, and this time his king was addressing him, not merely stating his name as a fact into the room. "This is King Caerleon."
Oh. That explained just about everything.
The persistent problem with border unrest and raids on the villages – not just clever bandits using the border against both kingdoms to pass back and forth and avoid patrols, but the king himself leading warriors against the citizens and provisions of Camelot. The reason Arthur had brought this prisoner back to Camelot – but not to the rougher dungeon. And the reason he'd asked Merlin to accompany him, looking more like Aurelian with Constennin's warriors hard on his trail, than the educated court physician of Camelot.
It was something he'd noticed – and he rather thought Arthur had as well – among the rulers of Uther's generation. Lord Lionel de Gransse, Arthur's father-in-law, and King Rodor were the exceptions; they'd welcomed Merlin unreservedly, without wariness or suspicion.
Olaf and Godwyn, Arthur's closest allies else, preferred to politely overlook him whenever they were in company; he didn't mind leaving it to Arthur to deal with them, and appreciated his friend not forcing the issue. Bayard preferred not to be in the same room as him – and the feeling was mutual – and though Alined's deep antipathy had ended with his death, his replacement Lot was coldly impersonal with Arthur and Merlin both, iron-fisted but fair and honorable and more reclusive than ambitious. Cenred was as elusive as a fox, but as long as he caused no trouble, Arthur was inclined to ignore him, also.
And now, Caerleon. Reacting like Arthur had brought a wolf to be his cell-mate. Rather like Uther, Merlin thought – a ruthless warrior who didn't trust what he didn't understand, suspicious of strength in a man that he couldn't visually evaluate.
"King Caerleon," Merlin said, very calm and very polite. Magic was not to be used for threat or intimidation… but a reminder, Arthur probably thought, and Merlin didn't disagree, might be in order.
Not unlike Aithusa making his presence known on the northern coasts. Thus is our land protected.
He moved to the bars of the cell and put his right arm through, hand extended for a civilized introduction. The green-black knots and swirls of his druid's tattoos that covered his forearm wrist to elbow were exposed by his sleeves rolled to his elbows. Caerleon's eyes were fastened to that proof of Merlin's magic; his back was pressed to the stone wall.
Merlin let several moments of rejected gentility slip past, his hand empty in the air. Almost he wished the man would gather courage to give them both a chance… Arthur let the same moments pass, til Merlin dropped his hand, still just inside the cell as he leaned on the bars.
"I mistook my fellow monarch for a common thief or bandit," Arthur remarked in a casual way, letting the facts accuse the man. "Only last week he seized the village of Stonedown on the border and looted it completely – then ran down an unhorsed and unarmed knight before we captured him. Young Bodiver."
Merlin's anger was genuine and immediate, though he controlled it. There was more to the story than that, and he'd get the full version from Arthur later, but whatever the situation, that was one thing he found hard to forgive – one man using such a disparate advantage against a weaker opponent who posed no threat. It always reminded him of Alvarr in the druid camp when he was a child. He straightened away from the bars of the cell and glared at the man.
Caerleon muttered something sullenly.
"I'm sorry," Arthur said. "I didn't quite catch that."
"He wasn't unarmed," Caerleon spat, more clearly.
"Ah. No, I suppose not, after he availed himself of that wood-ax – did it belong to one of your men, originally?" Arthur didn't wait for an answer. "I will be meeting with my council this afternoon, to decide what is to be done, with you personally as well as about the situation. You will be informed when we have reached a decision."
Caerleon turned his head deliberately to look out a window.
"Were you trying to start a war?" Merlin asked, keeping his voice quiet. When it became obvious that the other king would not acknowledge him, he added to Arthur, "I wonder what he would do with you or I, if he caught us on his lands, robbing his citizens or seizing his towns."
Arthur gave him a troubled look, which Merlin didn't understand. Even in a hypothetical, the king would be in no danger. Merlin would do anything it took to free him, surely he knew that. Anything.
"Only," he added to lighten that look, stepping to Arthur's side in preparation for their departure, "you are too noble and honorable to trespass and steal."
Arthur's mouth twitched as if he wanted to accuse Merlin of a hidden insult – but not in front of the king that was currently their enemy. So he turned and walked to the door, and Merlin followed.
"Carry on, men," the king said to the guards, who nodded and murmured, Sire.
Merlin pulled the heavy iron-bound door closed behind them, but stood in place as Arthur began to climb the stairs. "So. What really happened?"
Arthur paused and turned to look back at him. "Gwaine's plan. Bodiver volunteered, as our fastest runner, to draw Caerleon's band into an ambush."
Almost he protested. Except that neither Gwaine nor Arthur would ever be careless with the young knight's safety. And he was a trained warrior. And he could have called for Merlin's aid if the situation was extreme – and he hadn't. And –
Merlin did smile, then. "Your knee?" he said.
Arthur pretended not to understand. "What?" he said, turning to continue up the stairs. Merlin jogged after him, and he paused at the head of the stairs for Merlin to catch up.
"What the druids told you, what Morgana saw – is it war with Caerleon, do you think?" Arthur said.
"The White Mountains are past Cenred's land," Merlin said. "And I was told, the seer foretold Aithusa's involvement. His destiny is to war with the Saxons… Though I believe he would defend Camelot if the citadel's fall were imminent, that battle wouldn't take place north of Dinas Emrys, anyway."
"Damn," Arthur said blackly. "Without knowing when all this is supposed to happen – it could be next year, next month, next week – we cannot fight on two fronts." Merlin opened his mouth – Bodiver was not the only one who could volunteer to face seemingly overwhelming odds by himself, after all – but Arthur forestalled him. "And I will not ask you to face an army alone, you and Aithusa, just because you can. It isn't right to use your magic so, and you know it."
"But if it was necessary…" Merlin murmured, but it was relief he felt. He could… but whether he would come out of such a confrontation alive, or even himself, he didn't know.
"Well. Get something to eat and get cleaned up," Arthur told him. "No reason to unbalance the council, too, with your appearance."
Merlin flashed him a grin, rubbing the months'-worth of beard on his face, before doffing the hood of his cloak. He began to unroll his sleeves, as they parted at the cross-corridor.
"And don't be late!" Arthur called after him.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Arthur paced his bedchamber. Careful of his knee at the turns, though there was no lingering pain or weakness that he could sense, but it helped to control each step. He needed movement and distraction and a release of a bit of energy.
He wouldn't have turned Caerleon and his horde of whatever passed for paid fighters on his side of the border loose even to avoid a war – had he known there was such on his horizon, at the time - that would merely encourage the man to continue, to increase the pressure he put on Camelot. But Arthur didn't know what else he could have done, to prevent hostilities escalating with the queen still in power. His letter to her, whatever he wrote, had to be composed and carried quickly; the council could not take days and days to argue the best course. Though neither should he act arbitrarily without a simple majority support – a king could not dispense with his council's counsel often without undermining himself eventually.
A new concern was, if Caerleon's circumstances were mishandled, it could greatly complicate the issues to be raised by Morgana and Merlin – probably the same issue. And he was afraid that consideration would prove the more important, by the passage of time.
He needed it handled, and decisively, in a way that would not have him distracted by repercussions at a more critical point, later on.
A knock sounded at the door, before one of his guards put his head in. "The meeting, my lord," he reminded, as Arthur had instructed. Because it would never do to pace the length of the greater council chamber as the room filled. A king could not be seen to pace.
He gave the guard an abrupt nod, and paused briefly before a small side table against the wall, under a mirror. To place the crown on his head – a reminder in more ways than one. To himself, and to his audience.
Arthur was king. He was also Uther's son – and that would mean something else to the older councilors than it did to Arthur himself. Son of the ruthless war-lord, and perhaps with little patience for pointless arguing and vacillating.
Merlin had once said to him, Uther makes enemies where none need be. The weight of the crown reminded Arthur to be like his father in the ways that were wise – but not in all ways.
When he turned the corner, Gwaine and Percival were approaching the council chamber from the other end of the corridor, Lucan swinging at Percival's other side, clinging to his bent elbow so he could make great leaps with his feet off the floor as Percival walked. Gwaine's flippant wave turned into a flourishing bow, as the knight caught sight of the crown Arthur wore.
"Your Highness," he intoned, with a flash of a grin, and avoided the bare elbow Percival jabbed toward his ribs.
"Sire." The biggest knight gave Arthur a bow that was more abbreviated but also more appropriate. They'd already spoken that morning – briefly, as Percival as senior knight had nothing out of the ordinary to report from the time of Arthur's absence.
Arthur looked down at Lucan, the boy's eyes sparkling with eager interest, and prompted gently, "Lessons, Lucan, or training?"
"Yes, Father!" The boy twisted and jogged back the direction he'd come from, yelling at the juncture of the hallway, "Brian! Where are you?"
Arthur smiled and shook his head. Almost he wished for those days back again for himself.
Two-thirds of the chairs around the circular table were filled already. A few older men – wealthy landholders and a pair of merchants, Geoffrey of Monmouth – and the knights. Tristan and Isolde next to Gwaine, Bodiver standing against the wall. Lancelot between Percival and Morgana, resplendent in emerald silk and the intensity of her expression a bit at odds with her figure rounded by impending motherhood.
Merlin stood close behind Morgana's chair, but he was turned to talk to Guinevere – as if the two magic-users had already spoken to each other and finished, when the queen joined them. From their gestures and expressions, Arthur assumed Gwen had asked about Merlin's trip, and was commenting on Merlin's decision to keep the beard.
He had, Arthur saw with approval, shaved the sides of his jaw, leaving his beard to cover upper lip and the front of his chin. It made him look older, but with his finer court-clothes – a long coat like Arthur's own, but sleeveless to show the shirt of the royal blue color he favored – he no longer looked the forest-dwelling druid or the untamed dragonlord. Court physician – yes, exactly.
Arthur found himself wondering briefly what Gaius had looked like as a young man. Or what Merlin would look like as an old man.
One by one, then all at once, his council noticed his entrance – and mostly they were seated by the time he reached his place between Guinevere and Merlin. Except Gwaine, who didn't slide from the tabletop to the chair seat til half a second later – but Gwaine was a bit of a rebel, and because his obedience and loyalty really were unquestionable when it truly mattered, Arthur allowed these little moments when it didn't.
And if it had been a routine meeting with nothing critical on the agenda, he might have opened with a few minutes of bickering with the long-haired knight.
"Thank you all for coming," Arthur said, glancing around to catch everyone's eyes. "We have more than one issue to discuss today, the most pressing of which is our royal guest. King Caerleon –" he paused as Morgana shifted impatiently; she probably disagreed, but this had to be dealt with so focus could be given to the more nebulous threat of war in the north – "was yesterday captured on our lands. During a skirmish which he instigated upon one of our knights clearly displaying our official livery. After an unprovoked attack upon Stonedown and other border towns."
"This is not the first time he's trespassed on our lands," Lord Nollar said, a stocky, slow-spoken landholder in his mid-seventies. Merely stating fact.
His neighbor two down leaned forward. "We must send a clear message, once for all, that any action on any border against Camelot will be met without mercy." Lord Tindr, a decade or so younger, and built like a longbow – long and slender, dry and hard, spine curved forward. Outspoken and extremist in his views.
"Caerleon lost over half the men in his band yesterday," Arthur said. "The other half labors to rebuild and replace what they damaged and stole. Does that not send this message?"
"And the man himself?" Nollar said.
"It would be compassionate to return him to his own kingdom," Morgana spoke up. "Perhaps escort him under guard to the border, and leave him with a warning? Royalty is due a certain respect, after all."
True. But a bit uncharacteristic a sentiment to come from his fiery half-sister. Arthur leaned sideways toward her, beyond Guinevere on his left. "That may be, Morgana, but this man would see compassion as a weakness to exploit."
"And the likes of Odin and Bayard, who covet Camelot's wealth for their own?" Tindr said. "If they knew they could strike with personal impunity, we would face constant depredations on all sides, and even our allies would doubt our strength."
"Then what do you suggest?" Arthur said to him.
Tindr looked surprised, and Arthur didn't blame him. He didn't often invite the man to state his opinion so baldly, but they'd never faced dealing with another monarch as a common criminal before, either.
It did remind him of Bayard, arrested by Uther – they'd been lucky, he thought in retrospect, that the treaty had held, but only just. Mercia had never been a friend of Camelot, and it was true that Bayard would probably turn on them rather than support them, if through some catastrophe the fall of Camelot became a probability. He wondered how much was due to Merlin – the swift handling of their various crises before word could cross borders, the promise of his stalwart defense using magic if any should try to take advantage of times of weakness.
The days of famine and drought after the unicorn had been killed – his father's marriage and bereavement to a monster within the course of a week – his own declared death after the trip to Lionys.
"I suggest… I suggest that we force him to accept a treaty on our terms. He must withdraw his men from our lands. Return our territories to us." Tindr was on a roll, almost fanatically intent. "He must surrender Evorwick."
Arthur cast a glance around again, calculating those who seemed to agree, but their expressions, those who obviously disagreed, those who might be undecided, or simply not showing their thoughts. Guinevere shifted, and he tilted his body slightly in response. It was a swift unspoken, shall I say it or do you want to, answered with, in this case, I'd prefer you to be the one to speak up.
"He'd rather die than agree to such terms," the queen stated.
Tindr hesitated only briefly, but addressed Arthur. "Then you are left with no choice."
Arthur did not smile in incredulous amusement. He did his very best to remain respectful of the narrow-minded lord, who after all wasn't alone in his opinion. "I can't kill a man in cold blood. And, as Morgana has said, a royal life ought to be untouchable."
"You must do what you need to do to assert your authority on this land," Tindr demanded.
"And I will, my lord Tindr, you may be assured of that," Arthur said. "A forced treaty, however, is worthless. If he signed it, he would look for opportunities to make us enforce it. And to make his life the price of a refusal to sign would guarantee war with his queen."
For a moment there was silence. Tindr subsided, his spine bowing his pointed nose even closer to the tabletop. The other councilors exchanged looks; Nollar was watching Arthur, who gave nothing away.
"You could ransom him," Tristan said, "with terms similar to the treaty. Require his queen to agree in his name if she wants him back."
Arthur almost snorted.
Gwaine did not control a similar reaction. "If she wants him back," he repeated sarcastically, and Tristan shrugged.
"No accounting for some women's taste," he said. "Perhaps she loves him." Isolde leaned to whisper something in his ear that made him laugh softly.
It wasn't a bad idea, though. "A return to the old borders," Arthur mused, "at the very least. Perhaps a monetary penalty, to help with the reconstruction of our villages, a heavy fine that Caerleon will feel financially to remind him not to venture onto our land again."
Most were nodding. Lancelot was expressionless; Gwaine looked skeptical – but he and Tristan, Bodiver, and Merlin were the only ones at the table who'd actually met the man. Bodiver would have to be asked twice before venturing his opinion, and Merlin didn't often speak up in council meetings, mostly because he and Arthur had already discussed the issues in private beforehand. Only if it were a question raised by someone else that he had a unique perspective on, or if Arthur called on him to give professional testimony to the group at large, or if it was advantageous to Arthur for someone else to make a certain point or argue a particular view.
"How long do you think before Caerleon decides to do a little judicious raiding to recoup his losses?" Gwaine said. "He's going to resent you no matter what you decide, Arthur, and look to make your life miserable in retaliation."
That was very likely. But he didn't have the time or the men to make sure Caerleon remained on his side of the border.
"You could keep him," Merlin said. His voice was quiet but clear, and thoughtful; he lifted his gaze from the edge of the table to meet Arthur's.
"Hold him as a hostage," Arthur said. "For the good behavior of his queen and warriors?"
"He need not be kept behind bars, on bread and water," Merlin went on, speaking as though just to Arthur alone, and not to the council as a whole. "Until he is persuaded to peace, keep him here where one or two knight-escorts can guarantee his cooperation, rather than releasing him and needing twenty troops to constantly – and maybe unsuccessfully – patrol the border to enforce whatever terms you make. And with him here, we can retake those territories if you so choose."
Arthur felt a self-conscious smile pull at his mouth as he turned his body in his seat to face Merlin more directly. "Until he is persuaded to peace," he repeated. He felt Guinevere slide her hand into his, hanging over the opposite arm of the chair. "And you believe that… I can persuade Caerleon to peace?"
Merlin's smile was beautiful and almost intimate, the faith shining clear in those blue eyes shatteringly humbling. "I do."
Arthur almost asked whether Caerleon's uneasiness with Merlin's magic might contribute to reaching that goal.
"Now accepting bets on how long it takes," Gwaine remarked ironically.
"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer," Tristan commented, and beside him, Isolde nodded.
Lancelot said quietly, "At least until…"
The other knights alerted to Lancelot's unfinished comment, and looked to Arthur for explanation, followed momentarily by the non-military council members.
"Which brings us to the other issue we need to discuss today," Arthur said, pausing deliberately.
But no one protested, no one added anything to the acceptance of the last suggestion. Of course, Merlin's plan was not one that did not admit of changes later on, as the others had. Ransom or even execution could be re-addressed – but hopefully it would not come to that. Depending, maybe, on what Caerleon's wife responded to the letter Arthur would have to compose and send.
"Morgana, if you would," Arthur added.
She rose from her seat, sending a flashing gaze around the table. It had happened a handful of times, over the years, that one of her prophetic dreams contained information the council had a right to know – and under their father's reign, this would never have happened – but she always wore a defensiveness, a defiance, when facing these men. It was different than taking part in discussion.
"I saw a great battlefield," she said. "The war was already over, and all was still. Only the crows left alive. Horses and men – bodies and banners – swords and shields – everything left to lay in confusion. I recognized only the standard of Camelot. I don't know where, though there were mountains surrounding. I don't know when – any grass had been trampled away, any trees cut down or burned… although –" she glanced at Arthur – "these dreams have never taken longer than a month to come to pass."
Silence. Dead silence.
"War, then," Nollar said. "Are your dreams, my lady, ever – avoidable?"
Morgana gripped the edge of the table. "What I have seen, I have seen," she said. "But often – the outcome is not what the vision leads me to expect."
Arthur wondered if she'd seen anyone she knew among the dead. He gave his head a single shake, deciding he didn't want to know.
"War with Caerleon, then?" Tindr asked. "Perhaps we should execute him straightaway, in that case."
"No," Arthur said decisively. "We will handle the issue of King Caerleon with the intention of averting crisis and attaining peace and we will hope that an understanding can be reached before this battle comes to pass. Merlin."
Morgana sank back, but didn't release the table's edge or sink back into her chair, as Merlin stood. In direct contrast, he exuded an air of calm and quiet confidence.
"A message was given me by the druids just before I left them," he said. "A vision from Lochru, seer of the clan of Ruadan. To you, Merlin Emrys, to pass on to your king. Lochru has seen war. Here in the White Mountains. He has seen the red-and-gold emblem of Camelot. And he has seen the white dragon spewing fire over the battlefield." Merlin glanced down at Arthur and added, "It has been said for many years that the purpose of the white dragon Aithusa was to go to war with the Saxons. It has long been said that greed would push the invaders south from the coasts where they land, through the mountains and into the heart of Camelot. Past Camelot, until all Albion has felt their presence."
"This is the battle that Lady Morgana saw?" Gwaine asked, leaning one forearm on the table.
"Heaven forbid there should be more than one," Guinevere said quietly, unmoving. Her fingers were a little tighter around his.
"Is there any other corroboration?" Tindr demanded. "Dreams and visions and prophecies. Have we hard evidence that an army plans to invade?"
"By the time we have hard evidence," Arthur said, forestalling whatever Morgana opened her mouth to say. "We would be scrambling to organize even the barest defenses, and fighting among our fields and our homes, perhaps even besieged here in the citadel."
Merlin, still standing, said very quietly, "One moment, Arthur?"
A moment of silence. Everyone watched Merlin – his eyes closed, his jaw clenched. He turned his head once, as if to hear a distant sound better, or to begin to disagree with something irrefutable. When he looked at Arthur, there was a flicker of gold in blue depths.
"Aithusa said, he has sighted long-boats on the north-west coasts; he showed himself and the men ventured no more than a stone's throw from the beaches. I've asked him to return to check the northeast coasts."
Arthur rose to his feet, gripping Merlin's arm briefly. "Thank you – let me know as soon as you hear from him." Merlin nodded, and Arthur faced the rest of the table. "This is what I propose. We make ready now. Gather and store supplies of food and medicine, increase production of weaponry and armor – Tindr and Nollar, I give it to you to oversee those efforts. Gwaine, Tristan – train more men, and harder. Lancelot, if we can have a quarter of our forces ready, I would like you to lead them north. Cover the passes, send out scouts, build watchtowers, and so on. Geoffrey, I will need a letter drafted, a copy to be sent to our allies, warning them of this information, our preparations, ask them to consider what efforts they might contribute."
And if men like Odin and Bayard noticed them preparing to go to war and misunderstood? No, he couldn't worry about that, now.
"My lord, the costs," Tindr objected. The pair of merchants, gleeful as children on holiday at the news of mass purchases made by the crown, glowered at him.
"And if the enemy does not come," Nollar added, more ponderously.
"Better to be safe than sorry," Percival said.
"Sir Percival, I would speak to you and Sir Kay about our royal prisoner's accommodations," Arthur added.
Percival nodded, and the raw-boned young man beside him tried to cover his startlement with an imitation of the biggest knight's quiet confidence.
"If there isn't anything else…" Arthur added, once again meeting everyone's gaze in turn for a few moments. Varying levels of uneasy responsibility, grim determination, thoughtfulness. "Then. I think we all have work to do. Council dismissed."
A/N: Some dialogue from ep.4.5 "His Father's Son". And you see why this took an extra day – a long (but hopefully not boring, because it was necessary) council-chamber scene…
Just fyi, I posted a poll on my profile to try to decide what story I should focus on when this arc is completed… it'll stay open until Torr Badon is finished. I have to be honest, I don't usually vote on such things myself, I figure the author should just write where the inspiration takes them, but these four ideas I've already written some material for, so any one of them should be easy to pick up and run with…
