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.

Chapter 36

At the front of the army he led, Arthur sat atop his horse. At his side and a few paces behind, Merlin and the first platoon followed. They moved out onto the expanse of field, into the setting sun and the gentle winds that rippled long grass into whorls, and moved on, returning ever homeward. His father had departed days earlier and Arthur was reminded once more that to move a man was far easier and faster than to move a standing army.

Arthur stared forward, eyes open but saw the past not the present.

It had not been overly difficult to find his father. In search of Geraint, Uther had not been interested in stealth and – to be honest – Geraint had not been able to go far. When he had seen his father off in the distance, all Arthur could discern was his back and the soaked glossy blackness of his father's brown leather doublet. As he approached, however, he caught sight of the edges of the royal red cloak and how it had been tucked and wrapped and bundled into his father's arms.

Geraint. A chill swept over Arthur. Was she dead?

Arthur remembered being propelled forward, rushed in panic to find out Geraint's fate and then suddenly compelled by his father's bowed silhouette to stop in his tracks. Even now, the scene played out again in slow motion, never in full speed – as if every detail needed to be turned over and seen from all angles to be understood in its own time – so that Arthur could give those moments of seeing his father – unguarded and alone - their fullest due.

Arthur had stared at his father's broad shoulders and noticed – noticed how they hunched forward and shook, silently but with the energy of stifled fierceness that froze Arthur. It was his father and his father was – ? At first, he had no name for it. It took Arthur a moment to figure it out because the idea was so foreign a concept that he might have thought it impossible. His father – a man who bore the weight of leadership with stoicism and unquestionable strength – a soldier of skill, experience and legend – his own father who had been a giant of a man all of Arthur's life - was crouched before him, bent over and weeping. In twenty years, Arthur had witnessed his father in an almost infinite range of emotion – from one extreme to the other. Anger. Pleasure. Revenge. Amusement. Frustration. Satisfaction. Fatigue. He had even seen his father pushed so far that self-control was almost abandonned. But never had Arthur witnessed his father reveal such unguarded vulnerability.

As Arthur began to fathom what was before him, almost imperceptibly, his father began rocking back and forth and all at once, a sound of agony from his father made his hackles rise in fear. Arthur had never seen his father like this – disintegrated by emotion. It startled him, made him afraid in a way that he could not explain. His father – Soldier, Leader, King – was before him - broken in a way that Arthur would have never believed possible. Arthur could not look away so mesmerized was he by the shock of it.

Arthur knew – too – all at once and for the first time in his life – that had that body been his own – that his father's grief for his only son would have been more than equal to this. The potential for it had been revealed in his father's face when he had first set eyes upon Arthur and held him with such force and such inexplicable joy and relief of seeing his only son alive and well. In absence of evidence, Arthur had been forced to believe such filial affection existed in theory. Now Arthur knew for certain; he now knew what it was to have his father's love. It would be subdued, forced into silence by ceremony and responsibility and the loneliness of leadership; it would be driven by expectation and – above all and hidden from view and yet so profound in depth it was almost beyond expression. That his father kept such feelings buried deep beneath the surface did not mean it did not exist. It simply meant one needed to read the smallest of gestures. Slowly, Arthur became aware of the solitude, the isolation and aloneness that was his father – as king and as a man.

Arthur continued to stand and stare as the rain pelted down and the wind whipped through the leaves. Geraint had been held in his father's highest esteem one moment and the next – discovered a woman and nearly murdered by him. Such was the vicissitude of a king in these times. And now? Now Geraint was clutched to his father's chest, protected, beloved, mourned. There were no words from his father; only the faintest rasping sound as he drew breaths between unheard weeping.

Ever after, Arthur would not recall how the spell had been broken; how he had approached his father in such a way to allow his father to retreat and recompose; how Arthur was able to stare into the stern, iron eyes that were red and swollen and yet support the illusion that the King – his father- had been wholly unshaken and unmoved and was not now in any way vulnerable or distraught. The mask was restored never having had fallen. Those moments had been Arthur's collusion of respectful blindness and he knew they would never be admitted to or acknowledged. Ever.

His father had pulled himself to his full height, Geraint still in his arms; caressed, protected by the Pendragon shield. Back at camp, his father's hands had shook as he confirmed that Geraint still lived. She had stirred momentarily, eyes flickering open and, seeing Uther refused him.

"Let me die." She said as her lids sealed shut.

"Geraint." His father whispered, begging for something Arthur did not understand.

When his father looked up, they both pretended that it was only the rain that streamed down his face. Arthur was frozen in place – unable to comfort, unable to help. Then, with the hollow energy of a building storm in a ruin, the King had demanded his horse and Richard and without any wasted time – set off for Camelot and the care she desperately needed.

Arthur remembered standing alone, watching his father gallop out of sight and feeling his heart ache for his father. Arthur felt suddenly grown up – an equal to his father – as if by witnessing this pain of his father, the man, the King, had suddenly become human. To see his father this way felt like a rite of passage; Arthur felt no longer a child. His parent was not invincible. There was a chink in his armour; it came via the people he cherished. Arthur felt a protective welling of emotion and the deepest unsatisfied empathy – a wish to ease his father's pain in whatever way he could. If Arthur could have taken over his father's suffering, he would have – it was almost too much for Arthur to bear to watch.

"Merlin?" Arthur said, returning to the present. He looked to his flank and had to repeat himself before he was heard.

"Yes, Arthur?"

"Tell me again. What did she say."

Merlin sighed. He looked down at the mane of the horse, flicked the reins and then glanced up. This story had been told at least a dozen times.

"Go on." Arthur insisted. If it would be two dozen by the time they returned to Camelot, so be it. Arthur needed to understand.

"She was upset."

"About what?"

"She … she thought she had failed in her duty. Failed Uther. She wanted to be left to die."

"What else?" Arthur knew. He wanted to hear it again. He wanted to hear it again by the one man who had heard it first hand, who had witnessed everything and would have noticed every nuance of voice and expression. Merlin – of all men – had a capacity to intuit, to put into words the vagaries of impression and sensation. For all Merlin's inaccuracy in every other forum, this mastery of divining clarity was his alone to have. It was a gift that Arthur did not possess and the only way he could get access to it was through relentless questioning of his servant. Eventually, the man would hit upon the mark and reveal in stark relief what Arthur suspected he had known all along.

"She made certain we knew about the trap. And Sir Keith. She said as much as she could say – she was in terrible pain - she wanted you to know to retreat. So you would be safe. But it was …" Merlin stopped.

Arthur gave him a sidelong glance. Merlin always stopped here. It was the precursor to Merlin's editorial – the self-same editorial that seemed in other circumstances unfiltered and unstoppable even upon repeated orders. But here, now, with this subject – it was reluctant and careful – as if Merlin was revealing a secret and that it was a betrayal. Yet this – this was the part of the story that Arthur was driven to hear over and over again – as if in the retelling of it he might discover something new or understand something more. About his father. About Geraint.

"Go on."

"I've told you this a hundred times, Arthur. Do you really need to hear …"

"Yes. Tell me."

"I think …" Merlin started off softly, "I think it was Uther. He really upset her."

"Well of course he did, Merlin. He drew his sword. He was prepared to kill her on the spot. Who wouldn't be upset?" This – too – was part of the dance.

Merlin shook his head. "It wasn't like that at all. Anyone who knows Uther would … know he doesn't like surprises. Out here having narrowly missed being killed himself? Who wouldn't predict his reaction? Geraint is a soldier. Uther is a soldier. And a King. She would have understood. No, that wasn't it."

Once more, Arthur paused as long as he could bear it, wanting just this one time to have Merlin fill in the blank without being asked. Arthur let their mounts move on in silence and then gave in.

"What then?"

Merlin stopped and it was several paces before Arthur realized it. Noticing, he circled back for his answer. They sat upon horses and faced each other. The silence stretched out between them. This time it was different. This time Merlin wore an expression of deep sadness. It was regret, sorrow and the emotional outpouring of a helpless bystander to tragedy he desperately wished he could have prevented.

"I think … he broke her heart."