#igraine

"Who are you?"

He looks up from the small clay pot he's labelling. Wormwood. A boy stands in the doorway, gaze curious, tone assured and demanding. This, he knows, is the Baron's young son.

"My name is Gaius," he answers calmly. "I'm the new physician here."

"Oh," says the boy, wide eyes travelling rapidly around the room, landing on the instruments Gaius is still unpacking, the clusters of bottles and jars, ingredients, tinctures, ointments. "Did the old one die?"

A laugh is startled out of him. "No, no—Thaddeus is retiring."

"Oh," the boy says again, walking around the room now and peering at Gaius' things, eyes lighting up in clear interest. He reminds Gaius so strongly in that moment of his own little brother, Elias. Taken by scarlet fever.

He coughs, busying himself. "Thaddeus was my father's mentor, and wrote to me in the winter."

"My father says I will be a knight, the best in all the land," the boy says boldly. "But I want to be king."

Gaius smiles, roused from old sorrow. Ah, the aspiration of boys across the kingdom. "And what shall you be known as, young Pendragon?"

The boy grins. "I will be King Uther the Great!"

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Gaius is tightly bandaging the arm of one of the wounded men—Bran, he thinks the man's name is; but their faces are all starting to blur into one at this late hour, this many days and nights and weeks and months into the siege—when the trumpets give a sudden warm cry in the distance.

His heart lurches, but his hands remain steady. There is no time to seek out news—whether it is good, or bad. Onto the next pallet, where a young man is sweating, feverish: infection.

It's as Gaius is cleaning the leg wound of a third patient when Gorlois comes bursting into the tent, grimy with mud, sweat and blood, but beaming.

"Uther's done it—the Mad King is dead. Camelot is ours."

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The summer after Uther is crowned king, he weds the Lady Igraine, of Tintagel.

She is… beautiful. Hair bright and warm as the sun, skin fair and blooming with youth. But Igraine is also quiet, withdrawn, and Gaius watches in concern as her wrists grow too delicate, brittle, her body thinning like a sparrow's.

Uther comes to him.

"You must do something. I will not have a miserable wife, Gaius. Clearly there is…" he gestures in frustration, "something ailing her. Can you not prescribe some tonic?"

"Sire, might I suggest…" He hesitates, considering his next words.

"What is it?" Uther rubs his brow; there is already a flash of grey in his dark hair. That ship has long sailed for Gaius. "Spit it out, Gaius, you can be free with me."

"Perhaps the girl is homesick. Lonely," he offers. "She has, after all, left everything she knows—her home and family in Tintagel. She may… settle in more easily with a friend here."

Uther frowns. "There are other ladies of the court; she could make friends if she wished. She does not try. I grow tired of it." He sighs. "But perhaps you are right. I will send for some companions from Tintagel—they can stay through the winter." Uther smiles, glancing ruefully across at him. "Perhaps a feast, too, to be held in her honour. And a new horse; she does spend many hours visiting the stables."

Gaius bows his head, smiling. Uther has always been a man of extremes.

"Very good, sire."

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Within a cycle of the moon, two new faces arrive in Camelot: both dark-haired, striking, full of life. They almost look like sisters, Nimueh and Vivienne.

Gaius is relieved to see a healthy flush return to Igraine's cheeks. Uther, too, is in better spirits—for a time.

But seasons pass, and pass anew, and still there is no quickening in the queen's womb.

"I don't understand it, Gaius," Uther says bitterly, rubbing at his brow late one night. It is just the two of them by the fire. The warmth is welcome, easing the ache in Gaius' lower back from poring over medicinal tomes for long hours. "She is youthful, in good health—surely she should be with child by now."

"Perhaps, with more time…"

"I need an heir, Gaius. A son. I cannot wait forever. The Lady Vivienne—" And here he breaks off, sighing heavily as he stares into the flames. "Already, she is with child."

"Yes," Gaius says carefully, after a long moment. Gorlois had wed Vivienne in the spring, but has barely been at Camelot, his presence needed on the frontline, to hold the eastern border. He watches Uther. "Sometimes it can happen swiftly."

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

"I do not wish for you to do this!"

Gaius pauses, just outside the door—slightly ajar—to the queen's chambers. The voice is a strained and furious hiss, but he recognises its owner well enough: Nimueh.

He moves closer.

"There is nothing else to be done; Uther will not stop until he has an heir. I don't—I do not wish to lay with him, anymore than I have to. And if I am with child—"

"Igraine, this type of magic—"

"I know."

"There will be a price."

"I know."

"You do not know!" Nimueh shouts. "We will not know, until it is too late! You do not understand what you ask—"

"I do, Nim." Igraine's voice is steady, quiet. "But I want this child. And I want you to be the one, to do it."

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

That winter, two things happen.

A baby girl is born. Morgana. Gorlois beams from every inch of himself, besotted.

And the Lady Igraine falls pregnant at last—with the aid of magic.

It's the happiest Gaius has seen the young queen since she arrived in Camelot. She brightens every room she enters, hand pressed soft to her swelling waist, as Nimueh hovers at her elbow like a dark, tense shadow. Uther is in high spirits, too, and even more so when another battle on the eastern fronts is successful, bringing Ascetir under Camelot's rule.

Hope fills the air. A new dawn is spreading, golden and full of promise, across the kingdom.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Nimueh is screaming, pressing her glowing hands to Igraine's body. Blood, everywhere. More than there should be, Gaius knows. He tries to stem it.

There is no stemming it.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The druids flee.

The sky grows black, the smell of burnt meat seeping into Camelot's stone walls.

The dragons are brought down, with trebuchet.

The dragonlords are all slaughtered.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Almost all.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

One day, a letter arrives.

My dear Gaius, I turn to you for I feel lost and alone and don't know who to trust.

Gaius spends more than one restless night thinking about it, turning it over in his mind. He almost declines: he has learnt, over many dark years, that to not get involved is best practice. But he still remembers Hunith's kindness—and her young, terrified face, as she helped another young and dark-haired man flee the city.

And so, just over a month later, on an otherwise ordinary Wednesday, a boy with big ears, a bigger grin, and a terrifying talent for getting himself into the worst kind of trouble arrives in Camelot, too.

Gaius takes him in, and has his entire world changed.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Of course, not necessarily changed for the better.

Merlin is a menace. Gaius can feel his hair growing whiter by the day, each fresh morning bringing with it the very real possibility that Merlin has got himself arrested—again—or trapped in a bog—again—or got himself involved in something highly treasonous, such as helping a druid boy to escape, or smuggling a baby wyvern through the castle, or defying the law of life and death itself. Again.

But it is for the better. Of course it is. Gaius watches Merlin, the impatience of his youth, the energy, the conviction in him, the kindness—and his own weary heart aches. He is reminded of old friends, dead friends; of sweet and simpler times.

It's not what he expected, this late in life: but he learns what it is, to have a son.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

And he watches a prince learn what it is, too, to have a friend.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

If Merlin thinks they're being subtle, he's more brain-addled than Gaius had already suspected.

As both an old man and a physician, he's certainly no stranger to the habits of humankind, and particularly not those of the young and male variety. Indeed, if it were any other man Merlin had sequestered up in his small, not-at-all soundproof room, Gaius would simply turn a blind eye, and perhaps go for a timely walk, to avoid all the breathy, telltale noises, the thump and creak of furniture being rigorously tested.

But this is not just any man.

"Merlin," he begins, later, when it's just the two of them eating pottage by the fire.

Merlin's gaze lifts to meet his, and he has that look about him, that set to his mouth that Gaius knows well. He is so young. Gaius feels sick and grim with fear.

"You are taking a great risk," he says quietly. "You and Arthur both. This cannot continue."

Merlin swallows, throat working. It takes a long moment for him to speak.

"I love him."

Gaius sighs, closing his eyes. "I know, my boy. I know."

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

"Seize him," Uther breathes, as Merlin crumples to the ground—joining the would-be assassin where he lays in a pool of his own blood.

"No!" Arthur screams, struggling against the five men holding him fast to the ground.

Gaius stands, frozen, powerless, grief-stricken, as two young men are dragged away.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

"What is to be—done?" His voice shakes. So do his legs. He grips the back of the nearest chair; nothing quite feels real. "With Merlin?"

Uther turns, stone-faced. "He will be executed at dawn. I think it best not to wait—power of that magnitude, Gaius, and right under our very noses…"

Prickling terror crawls across his skin. "He saved Arthur's life."

"Gaius," Uther says, and his voice is uncharacteristically gentle. "I know how… hard this must be, for you. But you cannot let your fondness for the boy blind you to what he is: a sorcerer. A wolf in a lamb's coat. A threat, to everything I've built." The king reaches out, and grips his shoulder, squeezing. "He must die."

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Arthur is locked in his chambers. Even Gaius is not let in to see him, though he goes, and tells the guards he has a sleeping draught to calm the prince.

No-one enters, they tell him. King's orders.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

His own chambers are empty, cold and quiet—hushed, like the space itself knows something is wrong, without Merlin in it.

Gaius stares around the room unseeing, eyes burning.

Foolish boy. Big-hearted, brave and foolish. His throat closes up.

It is unbearable to stay here. He should go to Merlin—this time with an actual sleeping draught in hand. Save him one last night of paralysing fear: a small, final mercy.

Slowly, joints stiff, he makes his way to the shelves of tinctures and tonics lining the wall, their labels a mix of Gaius' own hand and Merlin's untidy scrawl.

He stands there a long moment, and sways a little.

Finally, he reaches for a small dark bottle.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The guards close the door behind him.

"Gaius." Uther turns from where he stands by the fire, feet bare on the fine rug. He thinks suddenly of that young, curious boy, a lifetime ago. "What is it?"

Gaius manages a small, tired smile. "I thought you may have trouble sleeping, as I am."

"Yes," Uther sighs wearily, sinking into a chair near the hearth. He stares into the crackling flames. "All this time, in the heart of Camelot… how could we have missed this?"

We. Gaius bows his head. "You know better than anyone how easily those with magic conceal themselves, sire."

"Perhaps we have grown complacent," Uther murmurs, frowning. "It will not do."

"There will be time enough tomorrow to address that. You need rest." Gaius makes his way over to the side table. "As your physician, I am happy to prescribe the age-old cure."

Uther looks up, smiling ruefully, as Gaius brings over the wine. "A tincture I am more than happy to take. Come. Let us drink together."

Gaius lowers himself into the other chair. It's a long moment before either of them speak.

"I am sorry, Gaius," Uther says finally, voice quiet, "that he has hurt you, with this betrayal."

Gaius lets out a long, heavy breath, chest aching. "I must admit I am… still in shock."

"Of course," Uther murmurs, lifting the goblet to the grim line of his mouth. "Anyone in your position would be."

Gaius drinks his own wine. Rich, warm; almost sweet. "How is… Arthur?"

Uther sighs. "Addled in the mind—no doubt enchanted. Once the sorcerer is dead, I am confident it will lift."

Gaius takes a breath, setting his goblet down. "I could prescribe him a sleeping draught. I have some with me, if you wish to take it too, sire."

Uther waves one hand, dismissive, as he drains the rest of his wine. "No, that won't be necessary. But tell the guards you may see to Arthur. I think you're right—it would be best for him to sleep this madness off."

Gaius gets stiffly to his feet, exhaustion rolling thick and sudden over him like a heavy fog. "Very good, sire."

Uther too rises, gaze sombre, and grips his shoulder warmly. "Goodnight, old friend."

Gaius bows his head. "Goodnight."

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

"Gaius," Arthur pleads. "Is Merlin—"

"He's being held in the dungeons," Gaius says quickly, moving over to the desk. "I have brought a sleeping draught for you, my lord."

Red-eyed, Arthur stares at him as if he's grown a second head, then bursts out, "I don't want a fucking sleeping draught, we need to—!"

"I feel it would be best for you to take it," Gaius cuts across him, loud and pointed, holding up blank parchment and quill. Understanding dawns swiftly on Arthur's face.

"Perhaps… it would do me some good," he amends, glancing at the door before joining him at the desk. Gaius writes quickly.

King plans dawn execution

Arthur sucks in a shuddering breath, as Gaius continues.

Await signal – you will need to take charge quickly

"What signal?" Arthur hisses under his breath.

"You will know, when it comes. I—" Gaius stops, swallowing. "I hope you can forgive me, Arthur."

Arthur looks at him a long moment, then takes the quill.

Will it save Merlin?

Gaius, vision swimming, nods once. Arthur's gaze drops to the parchment, taking it in his large, trembling hands.

"Then there's nothing to forgive," he says quietly, at last, and feeds the paper into the flame.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Gaius lays awake in the pregnant silence.

Finally, birdsong begins to stir the dark sky outside.

And then a frantic knocking comes at the door.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Uther is sweating, feverish, face twisting in pain. Gently, Gaius wipes his brow with a cool damp cloth.

Sir Leon steps inside the room. "How is he?"

"I fear the disease is worsening." Gaius looks up at him. "I know the prince was ordered to be confined to his chambers, but…"

Leon nods, grim. "I will have him released."

Uther cries out suddenly, body twisting. Gaius takes the large, tense hand closest to him, easing Uther's grip on the sheet, and squeezes it gently.

"Bring Arthur here, Leon," Gaius says quietly. "There may not be much time."

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

"Gaius?" Uther's voice is a thin rasp.

"I'm here," he murmurs, leaning in closer and pressing the damp cloth to his forehead again. Uther looks up at him, eyes glazed but somewhat lucid—then he cries out again as another spasm grips him, twisting his body like a rag.

"Shh," Gaius whispers, voice shaking. He runs his fingers, stiff with age and winter chill, over Uther's scalp, again and again, until the king's face relaxes once more.

"Thank… you…" Uther breathes, eyes closing again.

Gaius rubs his own face with his sleeve, swallowing hard.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Arthur stares ashen-faced at his father in the sweat-soaked bed.

His voice is small, when he speaks. "How long does he have?"

Gaius can't meet his gaze. "It's hard to say. This kind of—this kind of disease can move fast, or it can linger."

"Will it get worse?" Arthur asks quietly. "For him?"

Unable to speak, Gaius nods.

"Is there anything you can do, to—" His voice shakes. "To make it easier?"

"Yes."

Arthur sits on the bed, and takes his father's hand.

"Then do it."

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The sun is splitting the sky open when the bells toll.

Gaius brushes his thumb over Uther's eyelids, and bows his head.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Soon, a young man will slip into the room, undetected by the guards, to hold the new orphan king in his arms as he weeps.

And in days to come, an age-old chant will ring out across the great hall: Long live the king.

But for now Gaius sits, by the bed of an old friend, and says goodbye.