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."