Honour-Bound

Arthur wanted to believe in Merlin, he really did — but he couldn't. It was all fine and simple for a man like him; a simple man; without a destiny or a crown to say people should marry for love and not convenience. He wanted to trust the words he had said years before; but it was too late now. A marriage of love, it seemed, was not what a king was meant to have.

And maybe it was better like this — love could lead to actions that were closer to insanity than to reason. Love had turned him against his finest knight, away from one of his few friends. Love had poisoned Uther's heart and soul against magic, and it had cost him dearly — his daughter, his kingdom, his sanity. No, love was a fine thing, but not one for king's to meddle with. His family had proved it over and over.

Not that he had much choice — the idea of free will was an illusion only commoners would believe kings had. The agreement had been clear and valid; and his reluctance has gotten him nothing apart from a sharp reprimand and a threat of war. Rodor had been talking to Bayard — to Lot as well. It could be all more than just talk, and he knew he was in no position to fight. Annis might keep her kingdom out of it; but she would not risk her people in a war for a man that was threatening to break his word. If he had the true measure of her, she would side with Mithian if he decided to break off the engagement.

Mithian, of course, had no fault in any of it — it was all his own foolishness. She was perfect — beautiful, clever, flexible. She had seen him not being his best, and not only forgiven him for it, but indulged as well. She would make a fine queen; even without him.

Mithian might take it gracefully — as she had with everything else he had thrown at her, unwillingly — but her father was not a man to be trifled with.

There was no reason to tempt fate, no reason to risk his people. He could nurse his broken heart, and he might even find happiness in this marriage; more than in a marriage with a woman to whom he must always pretend to be better than he was (and never be fully honest); more than in a marriage with a woman to whom he would always be second best (and hadn't he always known it?).

It was easy to speak about hearts, but more hearts than his would break if he changed his mind. Countless children without fathers, wives without husbands, fathers without children. Could he bear the guilt for sacrificing these lives in order to protect his own heart, in order to try and find someone that deserved more than he could give?

No.

It would be a marriage of love, after all — love for Camelot, if not for his bride. And, in the end, it was the only love that truly counted.

Mithian looked beautiful as she walked towards him, her dress of midnight blue trimmed with silver flowers. She hadn't donned her own crown, her head completely bare; her hair was completely loose for the first time since he had met her, flowing in dark waves. She had a small smile for him, too, as she stopped. For the first time, Arthur stopped and considered that maybe — just maybe — their situations weren't all that different. Princesses didn't get to choose how they would marry, and she might be giving up even more than he was. The idea made him squeeze her hand in sympathy.

He barely heard Geoffrey's monotone as he went on and on — replying in the correct places and trying his best to ignore Merlin's burning stare. Mithian must have noticed it too, for she raised her eyebrown minutely at him when Merlin approached to give the old man the ring Arthur would be using to marry her. They would need to have a serious conversation later.

As she knelt in front of him, being proclaimed Queen of Camelot, he tried to ignore the terrible twist of his gut of seeing the Queen's crown against pale skin and dark hair once again; but it was done. She rose to his side, hand in hand with him, and as he introduced her to his kingdom; he could at least appreciate the beautiful combination that it had created; full of sharp contrasts.

The hall erupted in shouts of "long live the queen", but the silence of one voice was louder than the noise of all the rest.

Arthur was more than glad to leave the feast that followed his wedding, but there was little that could be more awkward than the expectation of consummating a marriage with a person that, all said and done, he barely knew.

Mithian was patient with his clumsiness, and good-humored with all his difficulties. She smiled as he kissed her, and spread her legs without needing any sort of request. Arthur had always imagined that this would be a special moment, one he would cherish — he had pictured himself being careful, kind, loving — but reality was never like imagination. Like a untried boy, he blundered, panted and released himself all too fast, all too harshly. Mithian did not say a word, but there was nothing if not grim determination in her face.

"I'm sorry" he muttered, as he rolled to her side.

The new queen just shook her head.

"Nothing to be sorry for" she said, softly. "You did your duty, I did mine."

In the morning, the bloodied sheets would be sent for Nemeth as proof.

Mithian was already gone when he woke up to the empty, cold bed as George arrived with breakfast them the following morning; leaving him to wonder how much exactly he had given up for Camelot; and hoping it had not been more than what he could take without breaking apart and plunging them all into a darkness far bigger than that of his father.

(There was only one thing he could never give up).