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."