Work Text:
Nimueh knows that she must do something about this Merlin, sooner rather than later, before his ties to Camelot and the young Pendragon become unbreakable.
She watches him from her scrying basin deep in her cavern, listening to the gossip of the spiders and the beetles, of the bats and the owls, waiting for an opportunity to strike.
* * *
Bayard knows that peace is the only way forward, that the negotiations with Camelot, however difficult, are necessary for the survival of Mercia. For too long, they've been wasting precious blood and resources better spent keeping Escetir in check and expanding their coastal defenses and trade networks.
Still, he is uneasy about Uther's invitation to solemnize the treaty in person. He wonders if this is just pageantry for its own sake, or if Uther truly wishes to look him in the eyes once more, to bury the past and clasp arms in friendship. How long has it been since they last stood face to face, with neither helm nor horse between them? Decades now, surely, well before Arthur was born.
By the gods, he'd been such a fool back then! The third son with no real hope of the throne—nor desire for it, to be honest—Bayard had set out to enter every tourney and melee, keen on nothing more than a life of romance and adventure. And, for a time, he had found both with Uther Pendragon.
It would be an understatement to say it hadn't ended well.
Bayard sighs deeply. Then he turns from the window and beckons the waiting messenger.
"What reply, Lord Bayard?"
"Mercia accepts. We will arrive two—no, three—weeks hence." As with any ordeal, he would rather get it over with, but he doesn't wish to appear too eager, plus he needs time to prepare a speech and arrange for suitable gifts. "Stop by the kitchens on your way out, lad. Get a decent meal inside you before you go."
Time was, the best a messenger from Camelot could expect was a night in the dungeons and to be allowed to return home unscathed. But that must change. Bayard won't have Uther Pendragon thinking he is the petty one, clinging to old wounds. Bruised egos. Broken hearts. What does any of it matter now?
* * *
Uther knows that to take and hold power requires an iron core of self-belief. Interrogating the past only leads to doubt, and doubt to weakness. He does not waste his waking hours on regrets, nor his dreams wandering the halls of what might have been.
Still, in the weeks leading up to the treaty signing, he catches himself—more than once—thinking about his time with Bayard, so long ago. Nearly a decade Uther's senior, he had been fierce in competition, but otherwise approachable. Proud, principled, but easy in company, always ready with a smile or a wink when he caught Uther watching him. And then, when Uther had dared more than a smile in return…
By the gods, he'd been such a fool! Thinking he could indulge himself with no real consequences, have an adventure or two before he was expected to marry. Then, as things developed, thinking how he might use such a dalliance to his political advantage, of the praise his father would bestow if he could lay Mercia at his feet.
Needless to say, it had not ended well.
The morning of Bayard's arrival, Uther dismisses his manservant after his morning ablutions, then takes up the looking glass, running a hand over his smooth cheek and jaw. Ygraine had claimed that a beard softened his face, even while adding years—back when he'd been eager for respect from his elders, and more often out on campaign—but he is no longer a young king on the front lines, and he has no wish to appear soft.
When Bayard sets eyes on him, there must be no hint of the reckless, eager young man he had been, all those years ago.
* * *
There is a moment, just after Arthur's servant's accusation sinks in and swords are being drawn, that Bayard curses himself for a fool. He never should have agreed to come. Uther has used him for the last time, and he will pay—he and his preening poppet of a son!
* * *
There is a moment, just after that idiot Merlin falls choking to the floor and swords are drawn for the second time, that Uther feels a stab of regret, a dizzying moment of unease. Had he misjudged Bayard so badly, misunderstood the extent of his bitterness and capacity for deceit?
* * *
There is a moment when Nimueh is crowing in triumph, thinking she has achieved a rare thing: revenge on not one, but two old enemies, not to mention nipping this whole Emrys nonsense in the bud, compromising her prophesied nemesis well before he comes into his true powers.
* * *
There is a moment, when it is all over, when Bayard will forgive, Uther will apologize, and Nimueh will deeply regret underestimating the curious bonds that sometimes form between men. Bayard and Uther were never truly meant for one another, but Arthur and Merlin?
She watches them in her scrying basin—faces pink with life, with things they won't say, the pair of them sheepish, besotted fools—then curses them, slapping the surface of the water. It seems her brazen attempt has only strengthened their bond. Next time, she will have to do better.