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Chapter 23: Triumph and Tragedy

Despite Uther's confident words to the council, victory did not come quickly for Camelot's men. In fact, the first news Uther received from the front was a request for reinforcements. Mercia's army at the border had grown larger since the two knights had first reported back about them. Uther sent the messenger back to assure the troops at the front that reinforcements were coming- a necessity to keep up their morale- and immediately started organizing troops to send.

The process wasn't as quick this time. Most of the men in or near the city of Camelot had already marched out with Gorlois' troops, save for a small number who had stayed behind to defend the citadel. Sending reinforcements involved calling troops back from other, less contested borders, as well as calling on knights not currently on duty who lived farther from the citadel. Still, everything might yet have been okay, if not for the weather.

The rain had started not long after Gorlois' troops had marched out, and had seldom let up since. Uther knew it would make for an uncomfortable, wet march for the second wave, but there was nothing that could be done about this minor inconvenience. What no one had foreseen was the effect all of the rain would have on the river. A fortnight earlier, it had been little more than a stream. Gorlois and the first wave of troops had waded through with ease. Now, swelled by the rains, it was a raging torrent. One man attempted to cross and was nearly swept away before his compatriots could pull him out. It was clear that wading or swimming across the river would be impossible. Nor could they wait for the river to go down. The rains still hadn't let up, and it was impossible to know how long it would take for the river to be safe to cross, even when they did. The only possible way forward was for them to cross at the bridge, some distance down-river. It would cause a delay that would have been unacceptable under any other circumstances, but they had no choice.

All this was relayed to Uther by messenger. Hunith was with him when he got the message. He sat stoically on his throne as he listened, but she knew him well enough now to notice the way his eyes tightened ever so slightly at the corners, the way his hands gripped the arms of his throne. He dismissed the messenger, and only when the man had left the throne room did he allow his facade of calm to fall, pressing one hand wearily to his eyes. Silently, Hunith reached over and laid her hand on top of his free hand.

"I don't know if Gorlois' troops can hold out until the reinforcements get there," he said in a low voice, "We were already pushing the limits of the estimate he gave me in his message, with this delay…" he trailed off.

Hunith tried to find the words to reassure him, to comfort him. She couldn't simply say that it would be okay. There was no guarantee that it would, and Uther knew that.

"Your men are strong," she said quietly, "And Gorlois is the finest leader they could ask for. All we can do now is trust and hope. They know reinforcements are coming, perhaps that will give them the strength to hold out."

Uther's head was still bent. "The waiting is the worst of it," he said, "Gorlois and I have taken the battlefield together many times. I always knew he had my back, and I his, now… there is nothing I can do to help him or the rest of my men. Nothing I can do but sit and wait for the results."

Hunith knew what he meant. She had experienced it herself, sitting at home with her mother while her father and brother were out on a dangerous mission, wondering if they would both come home alive, if either of them would. Nowadays, her father rarely went out on missions himself, he stayed in the castle, and so he was with them worrying while her brother was facing danger, and he had expressed once that waiting at home was worse than being on the battlefield. She suspected Uther was feeling the same thing now.

"You don't have to wait alone," she responded, "I know I can't tell you that it's going to be okay, and there's probably little I can do to ease your worries in this moment, but I'll be here, waiting with you, until we know… one way or another."

Slowly, Uther raised his head from his hand at last, and met her eyes. Her hand still rested on his, and in a gesture that surprised her a little, he placed his other hand on top of hers. Though he didn't draw away when she touched him anymore, this was the first time she could remember him actually initiating contact.

"I am grateful for that," he said quietly. They sat like that for a few moments, neither talking. Hunith could feel the warmth of his hand over hers, even through the black gloves he almost always wore. In this quiet moment, she felt close to him, the way she had when they discussed their children and their lost loves that night early in their marriage. The worry lines on his face seemed to have lessened, just a little, as if her presence brought some comfort that words could not.

Then the doors opened to admit a noble who had come to report to Uther, and the moment slipped away.

The next several days, the atmosphere in the castle was stifling. The rain let up, and the sun shone, but still, a dark pall seemed to hang over everything. Even the children seemed to sense that something was wrong, though Hunith and Uther both tried to act normal when they were around.

"The reinforcements must have reached the battlefield by now," Uther murmured to Hunith one day after supper, "Surely we'll hear word soon."

"I'm sure we will," she answered, touching his wrist briefly, wanting to remind him of her promise to be there for him, "Perhaps there's a messenger on the way even now."

The messenger arrived late the next afternoon, bringing news that their troops had been victorious; what remained of Mercia's force had retreated far into Mercian territory. The battle was over.

That night they celebrated, rejoicing in the victory, and in the release from the tension of waiting, of not knowing. Uther was in a better mood than Hunith had often seen him in, and the children picked up on the lift in the atmosphere as readily as they had the earlier strain. They were exuberant, and even Uther seemed to find Merlin's chatter and hyperactive antics amusing, rather than irritating as he often did.

The next morning, another messenger came. Once again, Hunith was by Uther's side in the throne room. The castle steward was giving a report on the feast that was being planned to welcome the returning soldiers back home and celebrate their victory.

The doors opened, and Hunith's eyes were automatically drawn to the man entering, though his entry was quiet enough that the steward, mid-report, didn't notice the interruption, nor that the attention of the king and queen was no longer on him.

The messenger looked tired and somewhat worse-for-the-wear, just as the messenger had the night before. It was obvious that both men had ridden hard, without much chance to rest or freshen up. However, something was different about this messenger. Last night, the messenger had entered the room quickly, hurrying to the throne and rushing to give his message, his voice infused with energy despite his exhaustion. This messenger approached more slowly, eyes on the ground, and he paused several feet from the throne, seeming in no rush to deliver his news. Something about his posture made a knot form in Hunith's stomach.

The steward was still oblivious to the newcomer. Uther held up his hand to silence his ongoing recitation of plans and preparations, and only then did the steward follow the king's gaze to the man behind him.

"I will come back later, my lord," he said with a bow, and backed off, though Hunith noticed he didn't leave the room. Obviously he too wanted to hear what the messenger had to say.

"What news do you bring?" Uther asked the man now standing in front of him, "A messenger brought us word yesterday that the battle was won."

Hunith thought she saw the messenger flinch, "The battle was indeed won, my lord," he said slowly, "But, by the time the reinforcements arrived, the first wave of troops had taken heavy casualties."

Hunith heard the steward, who had moments before been going over his plans so enthusiastically, draw in a sharp breath. The knot in her own stomach grew larger, and it was now accompanied by a tight feeling in her chest. They had known there would be casualties of course. It was an inevitable result of battle. And they had known too that the delay in the arrival of reinforcements would have consequences. But knowing in advance didn't make the thought of it any easier, knowing men had laid down their lives, knowing that their families would soon be grieving.

"How many casualties?" Uther asked, and she could hear the strain in his voice, the effort it took him to keep it calm.

"I do not know the exact number, my lord," the messenger answered, eyes still on the ground, "They were still… identifying the dead when I left. But… they thought it best that the news I bring not be delayed any longer." He paused and Hunith could hear him draw in a deep breath, as if to steady himself. She wondered what more there could be, what could be worse than the news he had already given them.

"One of the fallen… was Sir Gorlois."

Uther felt the messenger's words like a physical blow. He had steeled himself to the news of heavy casualties. Such was the nature of war. Already, he had been mentally preparing himself for what would come next, for the list of names, and the families that would have to be notified. The loss of so many of Camelot's men was a tragedy, but it was the kind of tragedy he had dealt with before, and knew he would deal with again. But he wasn't prepared for the single name the messenger gave him.

Some part of his mind- the tiny part that was still aware of such mundane things, was grateful he was sitting on his throne. If he hadn't been, he might have fallen back. There was a strange ringing in his ears.

The messenger was still speaking, but Uther heard nothing of his words. Instead he was hearing Gorlois' voice, the last conversation they had had before Gorlois had left, before he had gone to his death, at Uther's command.

"It's as if she was convinced she'd never see me again," he had said of Morgana, and Uther had reassured him that he would be home with his daughter soon enough.

The click of the closing door brought Uther back to the present. The messenger was gone, and the steward with him. He had the vague sense that Hunith had dismissed them. He could feel her eyes on him now, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her. Numbly, he rose from his throne, with little idea of where he was going. Only the sense that he needed to move, to throw himself into his duties and bury the emotions that he could feel welling, threatening to erupt, under mundane practicalities.

"Uther," In his peripheral vision he saw Hunith stand up too.

He still didn't look at her, "I must go. I have duties to attend to."

"Uther," she said his name a little louder this time, but still he ignored her, striding toward the door swiftly and purposefully, though childishly, he wanted to run, to flee the room, as if he could leave the reality of the news he had just gotten behind him too.

"Uther, stop," She was in front of him now, and he was forced to stop moving. She grabbed his forearms, the grip of her small hands surprisingly strong. He raised a hand, half-ready to push her aside, still needing to escape, to leave before his emotions overwhelmed him.

But her eyes met his, and something in her gaze stopped him in his tracks. Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears, and the effect made the blue of them startling bright, and hauntingly similar to Ygraine's.

He could see the grief in her expression, and the worry, and he felt the walls he had been struggling to keep around his own emotions crumble.

"I-" he drew in his breath in a ragged gasp, feeling the sorrow crash over him. Gorlois, his oldest friend, one of the only people in the world who had been able to reach him after he had lost Ygraine, was gone. The ground underneath his feet felt unsteady.

Hunith didn't say a word. He felt her grip on his shoulders relax and then disappear. No sooner had he registered this, than she was taking his hand, leading him back toward his throne. He sank into it automatically. Hunith didn't return to her own throne, nor did she let go of his hand. She stayed at his side, kneeling beside the throne.

"I told him he'd be back home with Morgana soon," Uther was almost surprised to hear his own voice, "Just before he left. It was practically the last thing I said to him." He felt Hunith's grip on his hand tighten, then she did something peculiar. She released his hand, but immediately reached for it again, lifting it in one of her hands, and then tugging his glove off with the other. He was too surprised to protest or pull away.

Then she took his hand again, gripping it as tightly as before, but now he could feel the warmth, the softness of her skin against his. He hadn't realized until that moment that a chill had spread throughout his body, as if a window had brought a cold draft into the throne room. The place where Hunith's hand touched his was the only spot of warmth he could feel.

"I'm so sorry," it was the first time she'd spoken since she had stopped him from leaving the throne room, "I know how you loved him."

At another time, Uther would have scoffed at the word. There were two people in the world who he had ever said the words "I love you" to in his adult life. One was Ygraine, and the other was his son. He certainly would never have expressed such a sentiment to Gorlois. He would have been embarrassed by the very thought.

And yet, sitting here now. He knew Hunith's words were true. He had loved Gorlois. Not as he loved Ygraine, of course, with passion and tenderness, or as he loved his son, with the overwhelming need to make sure he was safe, to do what was best for him, but as he imagined he might have loved a brother, if he had had one. Every knight called each other brothers-in-arms, but with Gorlois the sentiment had run deeper. For nearly as long as Uther could remember, Gorlois had been a part of his life. Some of his earliest memories were with his friend. They had been what? Seven or eight, when they first met? Gorlois had been there through it all, Uther's ascension to the throne of Camelot, his struggles to establish himself as a new monarch. He had been there when Uther fell in love with Ygraine, and been at his side when he lost her. And he had been there when Uther had wrestled with the topic of getting remarried, not pressuring him as the council had done, but simply getting to the heart of the matter, allowing Uther to sort out his own feelings and come to a decision. Then after the decision, Gorlois had been there to lend his advice and support (and a fair amount of teasing). He alone had understood the grief that had shadowed Uther on his wedding day, and his silent understanding had given Uther comfort and strength.

"Gorlois has always been there," he spoke aloud to Hunith, almost without realizing it, "Even before Ygraine. Before anyone. He is… he was my oldest friend. My first friend. I don't… I can't…." He struggled to put his feelings into words, how the idea of life without his friend, of Gorlois simply being… gone didn't make sense. How he could scarcely remember a time before Gorlois had been in his life, and the idea of there being a time after it was a foreign as the idea of the sky suddenly turning green. As if something fundamental and basic had shifted, and the world didn't make sense anymore.

"You don't have to explain," Hunith told him, "I understand. You don't have to talk at all if you don't want to." Uther closed his eyes, feeling an odd sense of relief at the release from the burden of speech. He had never been good at putting his feelings into words, and the grief he felt now cut so deep, he didn't think he could ever describe it.

There was only one time he had felt a greater sorrow, and that was when Ygraine had died. He'd nearly lost himself then, and Gorlois, along with Arthur, had been one of the reasons he didn't, one of the few things that kept him tethered, when it felt as if he were drowning. He hadn't fully realized it at the time, hadn't fully appreciated how much his friend's mere presence had meant to him, but looking back now it was obvious. If it hadn't been for Gorlois, Uther wasn't sure he would have survived the loss of Ygraine.

When he opened his eyes again, Hunith was crying, so quietly he hadn't noticed. When she saw that he was looking at her, she reached up to wipe her eyes with one hand, the other still gripping his. He could tell she was trying to compose herself, and he got the feeling she had been holding back her own emotions so that she could attempt to comfort him. For some reason, the gesture touched him deeply. He had always forced himself to be strong, for his kingdom, for his people, for Arthur. He'd never known anyone to try to be strong for him.

"I'm sorry," Hunith's voice was shaky, "I know my grief can't compare to what you must be feeling; I only knew him for a few months."

Uther shook his head, "I know that he considered you a friend as well." As bizarre and almost wrong as it felt under these circumstances, he found himself giving her a tiny smile.

"And you are always telling me not to hide my emotions," he reminded her, "you don't need to hide yours for my sake."

In a strange way, seeing her tears helped him. It gave him something to focus on besides his own grief. His gaze moved down to where her hand still gripped his, and he thought again of how it had felt like the only spot of warmth in the coldness he felt. He found he wanted to offer her the same sort of comfort she had given him. Acting more on instinct than rational thought, he placed his other hand between his knees and pulled off the glove. Then he reached out and put his hand gently against her cheek, wiping away the tears that still flowed there. He could scarcely remember the last time he had touched someone like this, bare skin to bare skin. He felt her lean into his touch.

For several seconds, they stayed like that, looking into each other's eyes. Hunith's tears were still falling, and Uther felt a prickling in his own eyes. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried either, let alone the last time he had done so without feeling a sense of shame, of embarrassment. But there was no shame here, no embarrassment in the grief he felt for his oldest and truest friend. There was no judgement in Hunith's eyes, and for the first time in a long time, Uther released the need to be strong, to be in control. He allowed himself to weep, here alone with her. As the first tears started to fall from his eyes, Hunith leaned forward, releasing his hand, but only so she could wrap her arms around him. And somehow, in that moment, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to wrap his own arms around her in return, to hold her close as they mourned together.

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