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 37
The courtyard of the castle was filled to capacity with people and banners and cheering and the warmest of welcomes. Citizenry of all ages, occupations and personal history stood shoulder to shoulder waving flags and white kerchiefs. There was joy in faces recognizing their returning loved ones and deep sadness for those whose lives would be changed indelibly by the loss of a beloved. Above it all, the crowned King of Camelot – regal, formal and unreadably stoic – oversaw the proceedings.
For Arthur, there had been no advance news of Geraint save that she still lived and no indication of his father's mood beyond the expected solemness of an army returning home. Uther desired stability and peace and leadership for his citizens and so they would have it so long as he were king. The public Uther was as expected; controlled, respectful, stately. And the private? That discovery would have to wait. Any underlying emotions or ideas that his father desired to keep undisclosed would be remain so – irrevocably known to himself alone. As ever, his father's innermost thoughts could only be approximated and only by those closest to him. No – there was no early warning of anything untoward. Arthur would need to speak to his father directly to take the measure of the man.
Arthur settled his horse back into place after it made two small steps to wander. He crossed one wrist across the other in his lap, the injured arm on top. With Merlin's meticulous – and one might be tempted to define it as unrelenting - attention and Gaius' medicinal supplies, he was healing well. To relieve the mild soreness, he circled his wrist once or twice and continued to withstand the long ceremony, as was his duty, displaying seriousness and decorum. This formal repatriation of troops – as his father always told him – demonstrated how highly in esteem Camelot held the men who fought to maintain the peace the citizens enjoyed.
All the while, Arthur mentally tried to hurry the pomp and circumstance and failed utterly. He wanted off his horse. He wanted a hot bath and a shave and clean dry clothes and his own bed and food – hot, fresh, flavourful food - that had not been prepared by Merlin. He wanted to see his father, Geraint and the two women who so regularly made their duo into a happy foursome – in that order. Then – after a fanfare of horns – the rows of soldiers began moving. Arthur passed under the balustrade and saluted his father, who in return honoured the men who had returned and, more importantly, those who had not. When finally Arthur was dismissed and permitted to stand down the army, Arthur thanked William for his particular assistance with Geraint's Second Platoon then went in search of any one of his desires.
Gwen and Morgana had been waiting at the mouth of the stables to ambush them and their welcome for Merlin and him was exuberant, girlish and filled with unrestrained affection. Seeing them both – fresh and clean and rosy-cheeked, he realized how much he had missed them both. Their hugs were extended and weepy and the longer he held them, the more he realized he was in need of soap and water. Words tumbled out of them as he and Merlin extricated themselves from their embraces – news of what had happened while they had been away – how Gaius had brilliantly masterminded the thwarting of a great coup – how they had played a pivotal role of espionage and had stood strong at one of the blockades during the final push. Then they went on to news of Uther and of Geraint – how Uther had arrived at a gallop and with the stunning revelation that Geraint was a woman – a woman! They were ablaze with curiosity – had either of them known it? When? How had they discovered it? Uther had revealed nothing and simply commanded she be restored to health. Of course Gaius had done everything he could to save her and gradually under his expert care she had begun to heal. Uther had haunted the empty corridors where her room was located; without fail he visited every night and a day or two ago, she had awoken. Then – with a sidelong glance to each other – Gwen and Morgana's words slowed and they began picking at what they said and the silences became as important as the conversation. Guardedly, they continued and exchanged unspoken messages when they spoke again of Uther. He was aloof; kept his own council. He often did – they had all agreed in a rushed conclusion – as if relieved to explain this new mood of Uther's. It was in his nature to be thus and of no material concern. But Arthur knew then that whatever had happened at the Forks of the Renaud had not been resolved. Perhaps it had grown worse.
"Merlin. I need a bath." He said finally to end it.
"Yes. You certainly do." Morgana agreed, fanning her hand at her nose and with bright eyes resumed the teasing banter of old. "You are a smelly, filthy mess."
After an hour's ablutions, Arthur went in search of his father in the Great Hall. The King was otherwise engaged, at the centre of a grand reception and surrounded by a large throng of citizens and soldiers. Backing away from the doorway, Arthur knew speaking to his father in private would be impossible so he temporarily abandoned it in favour of seeing Geraint.
Her room was where Gwen had described it. They had re-purposed one of the many guest rooms for her – first as a surgery and then as a convalescent room. It was functional and located at the end of one of the long castle corridors.
Gently, he knocked and, hearing no summons, entered. Geraint – as Gwen had warned might be – was asleep. He came to her bedside and peered down at her. For a while, he studied her – now clean and still and framed against crisp, white linen. Geraint looked different here; her face was delicate, shaped by soft curves and smoothness. How could he ever have thought she was a man?
"Hello, Geraint." He said, slipping his fingers under hers and squeezed her hand, hoping for a response but received none. "It's me, Arthur. We are returned." He held her right hand, noticed the leather binding had been removed and felt at edges where smooth skin blended into callous.
Without an answer in return – Arthur did not know what else to say. He wanted to ask and then explain about his father – to mend whatever damage had divided them. Reflecting on their time on the battlefield, Arthur also knew what else he personally had to say – about his respect for her, how she had contributed to their success, how he became to rely on her as an ally and a strategist - just as his father had instructed him - and how he had easily sustained it because she had proven her worth. Arthur wanted her to know that her secret did not matter nor did her gender alter her accomplishments or skill as a soldier. Ruefully, he knew he owed her at least one apology for deliberately provoking her to anger for no reason but his own spoilt indulgence. All this he did not want to waste on her slumber. He owed it to her to tell her properly.
Arthur lingered awhile, hoping that she might rouse and then, began looking around the room. It was as all guest rooms in Camelot were – dressed in austere Pendragon opulence. The wide four poster bed centred the room. Candles were fresh in pewter holders. Geraint had been dressed in a fine linen shirt and covered with goose down bedding and a heavy scarlet coverlet.
Her few clothes and possessions were set out neatly on the bureau beside him and, curious, Arthur moved to inspect the display. He viewed them as in a museum of sacred artefacts; his hands clasped behind his back and studied them one by one. First, he identified one half of the infamous pair of maps. He could see the edges of her writing – the letters a little crudely done but precise and confident. That map had been the key to everything; her observation critical to avoiding wholesale slaughter of Camelot's army. Next there was a pencil whittled down to almost nothing, then a rabbit's foot that he had never seen before but thought that he had seen Merlin with one just like it. And the cards – he recognized the pattern immediately – the cards where she had managed to thwart him from pursuing danger and folly and where she had taken on that impossible risk in his stead. He picked up the deck, pressed the edges to keep the sharpness of the stack undisturbed and checked the bottom card.
The Jack of Clubs.
That was the card.
The rueful grin was reflexive. Arthur would never again see that particular face card and not think of their exchange on the battlefield. She had lured him by an infernal card trick into a strategic agreement that he – by all rights of birth, leadership and egotistic desire – he should have never even have debated. In retrospect, he acknowledged that it was her desperation to win that reduced her to resorting resort to this pitiable challenge. Her chances at winning were infinitesimally small and yet she gambled. She was trying to keep the Crown Prince safe and at the head of his army at all costs. By the time she had proposed the gambit, she had run out of arguments and options to convince him otherwise. Despite the risk of losing, she must have understood that it was – nonetheless – a course of action that must be fought for - to the fullest extent possible, until all hope was lost. It was in her nature. It was brinkmanship. It was what his father understood to be her towering strength.
And Arthur? He knew the odds were stacked almost unanimously in his favour– and moreover – he felt a pang of pity for the diminutive shape and nervous, fumbling tentativeness that she presented as she argued her last resort. He had considered the facts of her proposition and position and knew she had almost no chance at succeeding. Yet - she was his second in command and – if nothing else – worth the minor indulgence. Arthur had believed himself with nothing to lose and a point of order to gain. It was this combination of unlikelihood and honour that had convinced him to agree to it.
Thinking back – even as he watched her at the time - he knew – forcefully and with all of his being - that she had barely known what she was doing. Geraint had no skill handling cards and clearly she had not the slightest control during her trick. She had dropped cards – she could hardly shuffle – her fingers were awkward and her hands clumsy - and then she was forced to guess his card. It was the only way to keep Arthur from a dangerous course of action. Her nervousness had been palatable.
By pure fate and accident alone, had guessed at the card he actually held. Arthur knew beyond doubt that she had been very, very lucky and. That binding agreement could have been her one strategic error but the stars had aligned for her. Geraint's daring and persistence in the face of utter defeat was awe-inspiring. The odds had been so impossibly against her. By all rights – there was no way she could have won except the fluke of drawing one card out of many yet she followed it to fruition, refusing to quit. It had been the most extreme examples of blind faith and proved to be the only way he would allow her to take on the risk travelling alone without the protection of an army and in return keep him safe and whole and able to command his army.
He stared at the back of the cards fondly and smiled again. Her ploy had been so pathetic, so feeble and desperate, and so … so frivolously feminine … in the underestimating of the probable outcome. All at once he felt a sense of great affection for her to have even attempted it. It was a testament to her belief and commitment to Camelot and the Pendragon legacy. She stopped at nothing for their cause. Then out of habit and boredom and because that was what one did with cards, Arthur shuffled them twice, then flipped over the top card. Another brief grin passed over his face. The Jack of Clubs. There it was again. It seemed a constant thread – a reminder of her persistence against all odds – an echo of who Geraint truly was.
His hands fiddled naturally with the cards – shuffling and splitting and stacking - he manipulated them easily and in an unconscious decision, he turned the cards over face up and fanned them out in a single motion. A patterned flash of colour caught his eye and he looked down.
Every card was the Jack of Clubs.