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.