La Fenice: 1
Title: La Fenice 1/?
Author: ArthurMerlin
Rating: PG
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin (ultimately, begins with Arthur/Gwen); Original Male Character/Original Male Character; (later on) Lancelot/Gwen
Spoilers: None, spoilers for 4x03 in promo video
Warnings: Mention of homophobia
Word Count: 11 142
Disclaimer: Merlin is the property of its producers and the BBC; the characters used in this work from that program are not intended for profit, but purely as a work of fan fiction. Original characters and the alternate world in which the story takes place belong to me.
Summary: “I must tell you that we artists cannot tread the path of Beauty without Eros keeping company with us and appointing himself as our guide.”
Captain Arthur Pendragon is the commanding officer of the Knights; an elite military unit assigned to the security of their Majesties. During a routine evening outing to La Fenice theatre in Venice, an assassination attempt is made; Arthur and the Knights are pushed to their limits trying to find the would-be assassin before he can strike, all the while the opera continues around them binding them up in its magic. Love and Beauty throw Arthur and Merlin together; united, will they be able to save the Kings?
Notes:
This is an Alternate Universe story, which takes place in a Europe politically very different to our own. England, Wales, Ireland, France, Belgium, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Corsica, Sardinia, Sicily, and Switzerland are all one state called Celestis. Similarly, Germany, Austria, Denmark, Northern Italy (Po Valley area), the Czech Republic, Slovenia, and Croatia are another state known as Lanktarna. 2 years before the start of our tale, Celestis and Lanktarna have united to form a single United Kingdom of Celestis and Lanktarna. Scotland, Norway, Sweden, and Iceland form another state known as Brodgar. Slovakia and Hungary, in this universe, are a single country known as New Bohemia. Bulgaria, Serbia, Macedonia, Kosovo, and Bosnia Herzegovina are a state known as the Thracian Empire. Greece, Albania, and Montenegro form the scientific centre of Europe known as Alexandria. Our Romania, Moldova, Poland, and Ukraine form the Republic of Moldavia. Present day Russia, Belarus, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, and Finland form the Nova Roman Empire. Present day Italy (aside from those regions in Lanktarna) are known as the Papal States and administered solely from the Holy See in Rome. The story takes place in 2009; world history up until this point has not seen either World War, there are no nuclear weapons.
George and Johan are original characters and belong to me. All other characters belong to the BBC and the producers of Merlin, or are drawn from Arthurian legend. The alternate universe in which this fic takes place is mine; and any country or territory I represent is in no way related to real life places. The opera 'Death in Venice' belongs to Benjamin Britten, and the original novella is by Thomas Mann.
The beginning of this story is Arthur/Gwen, but that will soon develop into Arthur/Merlin, I promise!
This story forms part of a larger series called the 'Love Conquers' Series.
You can find the story’s promo video here (password: arthur).
...
La Fenice
Chapter One
The sun sagged low in the sky, shining a dull, deep orange tinged with yellow near its peak. It cast about itself splashes of orange amidst the grey clouds, like an eccentric painter throws pigments onto a blank canvas. The soft light warmed the streets and gifted to the buildings a kind of glow. Yet, it was upon the water that the light came to life and delicately danced over its constantly changing surface. All was still, all was quiet, save for the slight splashes of the gondola’s oars as they slipped through the water like a knife through butter. Venice sat on the fringes of a Kingdom, far from the bustle of the court; tranquil and peaceful, secure in her position. She was a paradox; a city at once timeless and unchanging, yet restless and innovating. It was in her art that she poured her colossal energy, leading all of Europe in the fields of music and literature. She was truly the heart of the Kingdom; the seat of its emotions and the source of its inspiration. She was a meeting point of cultures, a blending of the Germanic, the Italian, the Greek, and the Arabian. For over a thousand years she had been a commercial hub, receiving merchants from every corner of Europe and the Middle East, and they had left their mark. Sailing along the canals, through the streets of the city, one would see arches to rival those of the Gothic heartlands, and ornamentation that seemed plucked from the courts of the Sultans themselves.
As the evening drew on, the quiet of the city and its lagoon was broken by the strains of dozens of violins carried on the twilight winds. People opened their windows and looked out to see appearing on the horizon a flotilla of ships approaching the city; a large galley led a number of smaller barges. The music played on, getting louder as the fleet drew closer to the city; the violins were joined by other instruments, indeed an entire orchestra was laid out on the barges. The violins played a fast tune giving the ships the impression of skipping over the water. The light of the sun fell at just the right level to hit the lavish golden decoration on the galley, to bounce off of it like light through a prism to dazzle the people waiting eagerly at the dockside. O how radiant that galley was! It was like a second sun, come to replace the first. From its stern flew a magnificent flag; deep crimson red emblazoned with a richly embroidered coat-of-arms; a shield encased with an ermine mantle and supported by two lions; one gold, one silver. The wind that carried the elegant music of the orchestra gently blew the flag in a gracious mimic of the water of the lagoon.
Captain Arthur Pendragon laid his white-gloved hand on the rail of the Bucentaur, the state galley, and looked out on Venice. They were approaching the dock outside the Doge’s Palace, leading onto Piazza San Marco; the Piazza was filled with people awaiting the ship, and a line of blue jacketed soldiers made sure they kept a respectful distance. Arthur took off his silver helmet and tucked it under his arm, being careful to make sure the white swan feathers that crowned it were neatly arranged. He ran one of his hands through his short golden hair and listened to the soothing music coming from the escorting barges. Handel’s Water Music, he mused, he had last heard it at one of his father’s garden parties at Bradley House back in England. He shifted slightly on his feet; the leather of his boots made a resonant thump on the wooden panelling of the Bucentaur’s deck and the metal of his medals jingled slightly. Arthur was not a big man, in fact he could be described as rather medium; medium height, and medium build. Nevertheless, he was highly trained and physically fit, indeed the fittest man in the entire Imperial Army; one of the many reasons he had been appointed Captain of the Gentlemen-at-Arms - the Sovereigns’ personal bodyguard. His face was noble; a strong defined jaw with a prominent chin, a pointed but delicate nose, stern eyebrows, and startlingly bright blue eyes betrayed his aristocratic blood; by right of his birth he was Baron Pendragon, the heir to Uther Pendragon, Duke of Somerset. His brow bore the early signs of wrinkles, which - at 26 - didn’t serve to make him look old, but rather gave him an air of character and dignity, and which had been borne out of the heavy duties and responsibilities he had grown up with as an officer and aristocrat. But there was also a cheekiness about him, most evident in his animated and jolly laughs, usually accompanied by his head thrown back to show his brilliant, albeit rather crooked, smile.
Taking his hand from his hair, he placed it on the pommel of his officer’s sword, which hung from his belt. His uniform was elaborate; a bright red dress coat with royal blue velvet cuffs and facings. Gold aiguillettes hung from his epaulettes on his right side. Up the centre of his coat ran a series of elaborately decorated golden buttons finishing at his collar with elaborate golden embroidery. On the left side of his chest hung a number of medals with colourful ribbons, detailing the record of his service to the crown. He wore black trousers which finished in black leather boots, polished perfectly so that the setting sun reflected on their surface. On his hands he wore white cavalry gloves, stiff at the wrist. The helmet he held under his arm was also richly decorated; besides the wondrous white swan feathers; the silver was embellished with gold detailing of vines and lion’s heads. Beside his sword hung a holster containing a Browning HP pistol, ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice. The sword it hung next to was not the kind of sword a knight would ride to the crusades with, it was not a great and heavy behemoth of steel; rather it was a light and refined blade, double-edged and straight, but thin. Nevertheless, it was strong, and sturdy. The pommel was of gold and decorated with the insignia of the Sovereigns; insignia which ran down the entire length of the blade, etched into the steel along with a vine pattern. A man in the uniform of a Gentleman-at-Arms was a sight to behold; a soldier fitly dressed to guard an anointed Sovereign. Standing on the deck of the Bucentaur in the light of the setting sun, accompanied by the strains of Handel’s regal music, it seemed that Arthur was a god rising out of the sea to meet his people.
Yet, Arthur was not the reason for the crowds of waiting people, nor the cause of the beautiful music. Arthur was a soldier first and foremost; and his service was to the crown, and it was the bearers of this crown that the people had come to see; precious cargo that was at that moment in the royal cabin of the Bucentaur, waiting for the ship to dock outside the Piazza. Arthur had been Captain of the Gentlemen for a little over a year, when he had been personally selected from his previous posting as a Lieutenant in the Coldstream Guards. The Kings had selected his team, which formed the Corps of the Gentlemen-at-Arms; five officers, and twenty-seven Gentlemen. The Corps had been reformed from a ceremonial posting for mostly retired officers to an active bodyguard unit at the insistence of the Kings themselves, and, in Arthur’s opinion, they had chosen wisely; because the team that had been built around him had become almost a family, of which Arthur was proud to be a part. They were the Nearest Guard of “new and sumptuous” troops, just as Henry VIII had envisioned when he established the Gentlemen in 1509.
The Bucentaur pulled up alongside the dock with the barges, still playing their wonderful music, taking up positions off the prow and stern of the ship. Arthur put his helmet back on and picked up his Gold Stick of office. His men took up their positions on the deck, Second-Lieutenant Percival Jones - the Gentlemen’s Standard Bearer - brought down the Royal Standard from where it was flying at the stern. The plank was lowered from the deck to the dockside, and the music stopped. Without a word, Arthur and his second-in-command - Lieutenant Lance du Lac - marched out to stand before the plank; their steps in perfect synchronisation and each footfall rang with military authority. Percival marched into position behind them with the standard, to which Arthur and Lance offered a salute. The other Gentlemen with their bronze lances embellished with gold thread, led by the other officers - the Clerk and the Harbinger - holding their swords at the present, formed a column behind the standard.
“Platoon, by the centre, slow march!” Arthur bellowed, and immediately the orchestra struck up Men of Harlech; the regimental slow march of the Sovereigns’ Bodyguard. Arthur and his men began to march steadily forward in time with the music, down the plank and onto the soil of Venice, leading the Royal Standard before them. As Percival was the tallest of the Gentlemen, the flag blew high and proud in the air as they marched. The people watched entranced as the disciplined men marched slowly into the Piazza to the flagpole from which flew the national flag also of deep crimson, but with a golden Jerusalem Cross embroidered in the centre, flanked on either side by a lion rampant; on the left a golden lion, and on the right a silver lion. The standard bearer of the Lanktarnan Venetian Guards pulled down the national flag as the Gentlemen approached and marched away with it, leaving the flagpole clear for the raising of the Royal Standard.
The music stopped. “Platoon, halt!” Arthur roared, and with clockwork precision the air around the Piazza echoed with the stomp of leather boots coming to a halt. Arthur and Lance did an about turn and saluted the standard with their sword, before moving off to the side. When they had taken up position, the orchestra began to play again, this time the Royal Standard salute. Percival marched forward to the flagpole and attached the standard. As the orchestra played, the Royal Standard was raised up high on the flagpole, to fly over Venice, signalling the arrival of the Sovereigns. The music came to a stop once the flag was up and Percival had returned to his former position.
Arthur and Lance marched back to their positions and Arthur ordered; “about turn! By the centre, slow march!” Once again, Men of Harlech was played as the Gentlemen returned to the Bucentaur. Arthur spared a moment as he marched to absorb the grandeur; the feel of being in uniform, the thrill of being watched by crowds of people, the striking vista of Venice of sunset, and the resounding majesty of the orchestral music. He had to struggle to keep a smile off of his face as he ordered the men to halt. The music stopped and the Gentlemen fanned out; a red carpet had been placed at the foot of the plank, and half of the Gentlemen stood on one side, the other half on the other. Arthur and Lance marched up the plank onto the deck of the Bucentaur, saluted with their swords to the closed gilded doors of the royal cabin, and Arthur announced in a loud voice: “Your Majesties’ guards are ready to march off, sirs.”
After a pause of only a few seconds, the gilded doors opened from the inside, and the Kings walked out. King George was tall at six foot 4; slightly portly from the number of royal banquets he’d attended, but carried himself with gravitas and dignity. His hair was mousy brown and quite short, receding back slightly to form an ‘M’ shape on his forehead, but with a distinctive crown of hair on the back of his head. His face was round and kind, yet stern and quite serious. His eyes were of the same blue as Arthur’s, but the similarities ended there; George’s nose was small, and his mouth pursed to the same width with a small curve of a smile on one end. He walked with a slight abnormality in his right foot, which wasn’t straight but was naturally inclined to pull him to the right, causing him to constantly watch and adjust to ensure he was walking in a straight line. It gave his gait an unusual look; not club-footed, not quite a limp, but not quite an ordinary stride either. Whilst he carried himself with the dignity of a monarch, and was by no means a small man, he did not exude any particular presence; one got the feeling that one could miss seeing him in a room of people. There was a sense in the way that he carried himself that, despite now being a monarch, he had never completely shaken the need to compensate for that lack of presence by making elaborate declarations of his presence. The atmosphere that did surround him, however, was one of gravity; a serious man, who had no time for frivolities and trifles, but concerned himself with important affairs, and concerned himself with them perhaps too much because it was beginning to show on the lines of his face even at 21. The lines around his small mouth, however, betrayed something of a love of laughter; a playful streak common to most people who show themselves as serious.
Beside him stood a smaller man; around the same height and build as Arthur himself. King Johan wore his neatly brushed brown hair longer than George’s; having let it grow down to between his ear and his shoulder. The first feature one noticed of the King was his large, penetrating, and soulful eyes; they were hazel in colour, and the light seemed to dance playfully in their deep pools. Johan was extremely handsome, with a dignified and noble aquiline nose, like the Roman Emperors of old, and a broad, wide smile much larger than George’s. His complexion was fair, a blend between milky and kissed by the sun. Whereas George was serious in his demeanour, Johan balanced him with a light-hearted cheerfulness and willingness to bend the rules George so tightly stuck to. Perhaps as a symptom of that character trait, Johan was not dressed as smartly as his co-monarch. They were both dressed in black full evening dress, completed with a blue sash and silver star denoting their sovereignty over the ancient Order of the Garter. But Johan carried himself in a more casual style than George; his dress coat was of a more modern, contemporary design; whereas George’s would have been fashionable in the reign of his great-great-grandfather. Johan’s smile and demeanour showed him to be a kind man, deeply concerned with people, and this showed in that while George concerned himself with ‘state matters’, in particular foreign policy, Johan was keen to improve the social and economic conditions of all his subjects. It was not that George was not concerned with those matters, but rather that Johan had more aptitude and experience with them; leaving George happy to concentrate on the foreign policy he excelled at. The two Kings were, indeed, perfect complements to one another.
The two young Kings had married two years previously, in the summer of 2007, both at the age of 19; a month after the signing into law of the Act of Union, formally uniting the Kingdom of Celestis and the Grand Duchy of Lanktarna into a single United Kingdom. Since then they had cemented that union of the crowns to such an extent that the barriers dividing Celestan from Lanktarnan were quickly breaking down. Coming to Venice - the heartland of Lanktarna - was part of a royal tour across the entire Kingdom, and even into the Empire which the two Kings had created by establishing new overseas colonies; and coming to Venice in the Bucentaur - the historic state galley of Venice’s rulers - was a powerful statement of ownership and legitimacy, and, of course, splendour. They were like two fairy-tale princes, and the people rejoiced in the splendour and opulence of their new rulers; wherever their Majesties travelled they were accompanied by pomp, ceremony, music, ritual, theatre, and grand food; all paid for out of the Kings’ own funds. It was like one, long, extended honeymoon. Together they were forging an image of united monarchy that showed its place at the heart of national life; as personification of the state, and ceremonial heads.
King Johan walked with his hands casually in his pockets; King George with his hands clasped neatly behind his back, as they walked out onto the deck of the Bucentaur. Arthur offered another salute with his sword, which the Kings acknowledged with salutes of their own (Johan, of course, having removed his hands from his pockets to do so). Arthur and Lance about turned, and marched to the plank, the Kings falling into step behind them; not marching themselves, but strolling along like any happy couple. As Arthur led them down the plank to the dockside, the orchestra played the Royal Salute. Once on the dockside, Arthur marched down the line of his men, until he had passed them all and then halted, Lance next to him. The Kings walked along and stopped behind them, to take the salute of their people; the orchestra began to play Vivat in Aeternum and the people’s voices rose up in joyful chorus.
With waves and smiles, at the conclusion of the anthem Arthur and Lance began to march forwards again, followed by their Majesties. Behind them, the rest of the Gentlemen fell into line and marched solemnly after the Kings. The people cheered and the orchestra returned to playing Water Music. As they made their way to the entrance to the Doge’s Palace - the royal residence in Venice - Johan and George waved to their people and occasionally reached out to shake outstretched hands. Each time they did, Arthur’s eyes darted to watch them, to ensure they didn’t attempt anything on the Kings’ person. The job of a bodyguard required constant vigilance; not everybody had been happy with the marriage and the union of the two nations, and Arthur feared it was only a matter of time before an attempt was made on the Kings’ lives. But it was not to happen tonight, with a final wave to their people, the Kings walked up the steps to the Palace. They stopped at the top of the steps, flanked on either side by statues of Ares and Poseidon, to take the cheers of the people before turning and walking through the doors into the Palace.
Arthur walked into the Palace after them, where King George stopped him; “ah, Captain, Johan and I will be dining here this evening, and then attending the performance of Death in Venice at La Fenice. Can you handle the security arrangements, my boy?”
The King always called Arthur ‘my boy’, despite being several years younger, but Arthur nodded and replied; “of course, your Majesty.”
“Splendid!” George declared and walked quickly off towards the private apartments. The Palace was abuzz with activity; the Royal Household had travelled ahead of the Kings from their last stop at the Residenz in Munich and the full machinery of the household was in place hours before the Kings had even set sail. Equerries and footmen in their red coats rushed around carrying papers and boxes from room to room, the occasional butler shouting orders in the distance. Arthur removed his helmet, giving his head a chance to breathe, and walked off towards the Guard Room. As he rounded a corner he nearly walked into Sir Louis Grantham, the Master of the Household; a tall, spindly, elderly gentleman with thinning white hair and a thick white moustache, and small spectacles hung low on his nose. He shared a nod with Arthur and carried on about his business as Arthur walked on down the stunning corridors.
When he walked into the Guard Room he found his men undoing the buttons on their dress coats to combat the heat and chatting amiably. Lance noticed Arthur enter and offered him a glass of water from a jug left by one of the footmen at the request of King Johan. Arthur took it and downed the water in one swig. Lance was, perhaps, the most honest and loyal of Arthur’s men, and he had quickly become a good friend. He was born and raised in a town just outside Marseilles, on the Mediterranean coast of Celestis in what had been the French Empire, until it had fallen at the end of the Napoleonic wars which had prompted the creation of Celestis. Consequently, Lance spoke English with a thick French accent, and often slipped into using French if it was easier for him to express himself that way. Since the mid 1800’s it was expected that aristocratic Celestans would be fluent in French, and so Arthur was able to converse with him in that language without any problems. Lance typified the spirit of the medieval French knight; he was courteous, generous, noble, and valiant. These were all qualities that had endeared him to the rather conservative, nigh snobbish, King George and secured his place in the Gentlemen-at-Arms. In build he was again similar to Arthur. He was not as muscular as the captain, but he was more agile. His hair was dark, which was worn long until his posting to the Gentlemen required him to cut it short. His eyes were chocolate brown, and somewhat eerily calculating; one got the sense speaking to Lance that he could see through you and understand you completely, a skill which Arthur found extremely useful in guarding the Kings; being able to make a quick assessment of a person was crucial.
Arthur cleared his throat so that his troops would pay attention; “listen up, men, their Majesties will be attending a performance at La Fenice in approximately 3 hours time. As usual it’s down to us to escort them, and take charge of security in the theatre itself. Gwaine, Kay, and Galahad; I want you down at La Fenice in one hour. Merlin, I want you to get a floor plan of the building and make a note of any escape routes. Owain and Bors, I want you to start vetting the audience based on tickets already sold. This is a routine op, ladies and gentlemen, and you’re the best; but slack off and I’ll have you tied to the wheels of a gun carriage and paraded around the Piazza, got it?”
The men chuckled under their breath, but nodded and mumbled their assent. Owain and Bors buttoned up their coats and left the room to be about their task. Merlin went to do the same, but Arthur grabbed him by the arm and stopped him; “I hope you’re not planning on going out dressed like that, Private Emrys?”
Merlin was an inch or so taller than Arthur, but skinnier and lankier. He had been born near Knock, in Ireland; the westernmost province of the Celestan Kingdom; he was pale and ethereal in appearance, almost as if he could have been one of the mysterious figures from the vision which had made Knock famous. His eyes were not as blue as Arthur’s, but they were bigger and more open, and gave the impression of naivety. His face seemed rather too big for his head, as a matter of fact; his cheekbones were so prominent it was quite odd, as if he did not have enough skin to cover his face. His ears, too, were too big for his head, almost comically so. But he had the warmest smile of anybody Arthur knew, with the possible exception of King Johan himself, and a heart to match. And for all his oddities, Merlin did not look funny or unusual; he looked like Merlin - unique, ineffable, unknowable. He looked down at his state of dress and saw he hadn’t done up his coat; it was hanging half off of him.
“Oh, sorry Arthur,” he said with a blinding smile.
The young man fumbled with his coat, prompting Arthur to bat his hands away and sort him out. He buttoned up Merlin’s coat and dusted him down with his hand; “I shouldn’t have to dress you, Merlin, you’re old enough to do it yourself now.”
“Ha ha,” Merlin sneered but without any malice. He had been hand-picked for the job by King Johan, who had seen him on a state visit to Dublin whilst he was still Prince, before the Act of Union, and had never forgotten him. Merlin was touched when he received the letter informing him of the royal appointment, and left his job in the Dublin police to begin his new life as a soldier and bodyguard. He’d been sorry to leave his home, and dubious about his suitability for the role; unlike the other Gentlemen, he was not, and had never been, military. Until he joined basic training a year ago, he had never fired a shot. Arthur had been well aware of that when Merlin joined the team, and Arthur had teased him mercilessly. It had taken Merlin over 8 months to break Arthur’s cold exterior and gain some semblance of friendship, albeit a friendship built on playful insults and banter. Despite it all, though, Merlin still had the lingering feeling that Arthur doubted him, and even didn’t like him. He tried his best to be cordial, but Arthur’s general manner towards him was always bordering on rude. Also, Merlin couldn’t help a degree of class consciousness creeping in; he saw Arthur as a spoiled brat, whereas he was born to a mother and father who worked on a farm for a local landowner. Arthur had grown up in a mansion; Merlin had been lucky if they’d had a cottage with a roof that didn’t leak.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Get going!” Arthur said with a shove to Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin glared at him, but left the room to complete his errand. Arthur had a tendency to leave most errands to Merlin, so he wasn’t surprised in the least that he’d been chosen for this.
As he walked down the corridor, hand resting on the pommel of his sword, Merlin mumbled to himself; ‘how am I supposed to find a floor plan?’ A couple of equerries sent him strange looks, but he smiled sweetly back at them and carried on happily mumbling as he walked to the main office. Knocking on the door, he walked in and clicked his heels. Mrs. Hawthorne sat behind a desk looked up from her work and nodded for Merlin to continue. Mrs. Hawthorne was the Private Secretary to Their Majesties, who nominally had authority over the Gentlemen-at-Arms, although in practice amounted to little more than general oversight as the Kings themselves preferred to take direct control of their Guard. But Mrs. Hawthorne’s job also involved organising the Sovereigns’ official programme.
“Arthur wants me to go over a floor plan of the theatre, check for exits and that sort of thing.”
Mrs. Hawthorne’s glasses fell off her nose and dangled from their chain around her neck, she looked up with disdain and a sigh and said; “that sort of thing? And I assume you mean Captain Pendragon?”
“Yes, yes, the prat, can we get on with it please?” Merlin waved his hand dismissively.
Mrs. Hawthorne sighed again, and she seemed to do that a lot in her position, and rifled through her papers until she found the floor plan Merlin needed. He took it from her with a cheeky smile, and sat down on the edge of her desk to start studying it. Mrs. Hawthorne coughed politely, and when Merlin turned to look she was staring at him expectantly. Merlin just smiled again and said; “lovely day, isn’t it?”
“Out. Now,” was Mrs. Hawthorne’s only response. This time it was Merlin’s time to sigh, and he walked out of the room clutching his precious bit of paper.
...
Arthur gripped his helmet under his arm and gave the equerry a curt nod. The young man knocked smartly once on the door before him before opening the door and walking in. He stopped after a few paces, bowed, and said; “Captain Pendragon, your Majesties.”
Arthur walked in, bowed, and hovered by the door as the equerry left. King George was sat at a desk with pen in hand signing a piece of paper, while King Johan stood beside him, hand on his shoulder, reading whatever it was. It was Johan who turned around first; “Captain, do come in. Put that helmet down somewhere, no need for you to carry it everywhere.”
George rolled his eyes at his spouse’s ignorance of protocol, but did nothing to stop him, so Arthur did as told and put the helmet down in one of the chairs; a grand one, with gilded back and upholstered in wondrous green velvet. The entire room was similarly decorated in sumptuous green accented with gold, except for the ceiling, which was almost entirely an enormous mural, save for the edges which were white stucco accented again with gold. The mural depicted King Johan’s father - Grand Duke Otto - seated on a white cloud being lifted by angels into the waiting arms of Christ; the ‘apotheosis of Otto’. Otto wore the Lanktarnan crown on his head, and wore the ceremonial blue and silver coronation robes. He held in his hand a sceptre, and in his other an orb; the traditional symbols of monarchy. Below him could be seen the lagoon of Venice; the city complete with numerous ships entering the harbour, indicative of trade and wealth. It was an image of victory and triumph, celebrating the long reign of Johan’s beloved father. Beloved not, however, by everybody; it was commonly known that King George loathed Otto, for Otto’s opposition to his marriage to Johan. Arthur supposed he only tolerated sleeping in a bedchamber with Otto’s image larger than life painted onto the ceiling because he slept in that chamber with Johan; the ultimate snub to Otto’s opposition to their relationship, they had now triumphed in the place which saw some of Otto’s greatest victories and under, as it were, his very nose. Still, Arthur would not be surprised if George had a plan already underway to replace the apotheosis with something a little more suitable.
King George was an extravagant patron of the arts. Since his reign as King began, George had been systematically promoting a very particular artistic agenda; he loathed ‘contemporary’ art and persistently pushed and promoted more traditional styles of art, in particular the academic school. Under George’s direct supervision, work had begun seven months previously on a new palace, on a scale never seen before, to be built on the ancient border between Celestis and Lanktarna as a symbol of their new unity. Known simply as ‘the Valley’, the palace was slowly rising from the ground, with a string of Europe’s finest artists waiting to enter and begin beautifying it on the inside. The centrepiece was to be a new throne room; one to rival any in the known world. Behind the dais where the thrones would sit, a mural would cover the entire wall in very much the same vein as the mural on the bedchamber ceiling; it was to be a mural of the ‘apotheosis of George and Johan’ a scene combining elements of their marriage with religious imagery, symbols of victory, and national unity; a powerful statement of their new United Kingdom. King Johan was less enthusiastic, however; by nature he disliked opulence, and avoided extravagance wherever possible. It was Johan who reigned George in, preventing him from bankrupting the nation with his artistic ventures. As always, George concerned himself with big gestures, whereas Johan was more mindful of the little things. So, where George would prefer to wallow in all the splendour that baroque could offer; Johan would much rather have basic simplicity.
“What can we do for you, Captain?” Johan asked after a few moments; Arthur, of course, could not initiate conversation, but was required to wait until the King began speaking to him.
“Your Majesties’ coach is ready to move off, sirs,” Arthur replied.
“Is that all you say, sir?” George said without raising his head from his papers; “Your Majesties’ whatever-it-is is ready to move off, sirs?”
Arthur didn’t know how to respond. He stuttered for a moment before Johan saved him with a gentle smack to George’s arm; “George, don’t be so rude.”
“You’ve made me jog my signature, dear,” George said under his breath, but put his pen away and stood from his desk; “well, onwards and upwards!”
“Thank you, Captain, we will be ready to depart presently,” Johan said in his finest regal tones, leaving no doubt that he was being dismissed. Arthur picked up his helmet, clicked his heels and bowed, and walked backwards out of the room.
When the door closed behind him, George gently grabbed Johan by the waist from behind and pulled him into an embrace.
“George,” Johan warned, “they’re waiting for us.”
“They always wait for us, we’re Kings, that what they do,” George replied in a low voice, and rested his head on Johan’s shoulder. Johan put his hand on George’s, and pushed himself free, but he turned around and kissed George tenderly.
“Come on, my King, let’s go and enjoy an evening at the theatre. Do you remember the first time you took me to the theatre?”
George chuckled, “you broke your leg and I had to wheel you in a chair.”
Johan nodded, “because you’d paid for the theatre and you didn’t want to lose the deposit.”
“That’s the reason I gave you, yes.”
Johan’s eyes widened, “what do you mean?”
“The real reason was I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to be alone with you, we were still courting at the time.”
Johan caressed George’s cheek and smiled, “you sly devil, you never told me that.” He kissed his spouse again, before pulling away, “come on, you don’t want to miss another opportunity to be alone with me do you?”
Turning very serious, George said; “Never. I never want to miss anything with you.”
“’cos I don’t wanna miss a thing” Johan sang.
“Don’t! Don’t! You know how I hate that cheap music!” George moaned, covering his ears.
Johan laughed heartily, revealing his radiant smile, “I thought you liked my singing?”
“My love, you sing like an angel, I tell you that every day; just, please, sing something decent?”
With another laugh, Johan swept George out of the room. Their youthful behaviour, chasing each other down the halls and stairs, still continued to shock some of the older members of the Household, but by now many were used to it. They were carefree and in love, and they were young so they made the most of it.
Continued here...
Author: ArthurMerlin
Rating: PG
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin (ultimately, begins with Arthur/Gwen); Original Male Character/Original Male Character; (later on) Lancelot/Gwen
Spoilers: None, spoilers for 4x03 in promo video
Warnings: Mention of homophobia
Word Count: 11 142
Disclaimer: Merlin is the property of its producers and the BBC; the characters used in this work from that program are not intended for profit, but purely as a work of fan fiction. Original characters and the alternate world in which the story takes place belong to me.
Summary: “I must tell you that we artists cannot tread the path of Beauty without Eros keeping company with us and appointing himself as our guide.”
Captain Arthur Pendragon is the commanding officer of the Knights; an elite military unit assigned to the security of their Majesties. During a routine evening outing to La Fenice theatre in Venice, an assassination attempt is made; Arthur and the Knights are pushed to their limits trying to find the would-be assassin before he can strike, all the while the opera continues around them binding them up in its magic. Love and Beauty throw Arthur and Merlin together; united, will they be able to save the Kings?
Notes:
This is an Alternate Universe story, which takes place in a Europe politically very different to our own. England, Wales, Ireland, France, Belgium, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Corsica, Sardinia, Sicily, and Switzerland are all one state called Celestis. Similarly, Germany, Austria, Denmark, Northern Italy (Po Valley area), the Czech Republic, Slovenia, and Croatia are another state known as Lanktarna. 2 years before the start of our tale, Celestis and Lanktarna have united to form a single United Kingdom of Celestis and Lanktarna. Scotland, Norway, Sweden, and Iceland form another state known as Brodgar. Slovakia and Hungary, in this universe, are a single country known as New Bohemia. Bulgaria, Serbia, Macedonia, Kosovo, and Bosnia Herzegovina are a state known as the Thracian Empire. Greece, Albania, and Montenegro form the scientific centre of Europe known as Alexandria. Our Romania, Moldova, Poland, and Ukraine form the Republic of Moldavia. Present day Russia, Belarus, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, and Finland form the Nova Roman Empire. Present day Italy (aside from those regions in Lanktarna) are known as the Papal States and administered solely from the Holy See in Rome. The story takes place in 2009; world history up until this point has not seen either World War, there are no nuclear weapons.
George and Johan are original characters and belong to me. All other characters belong to the BBC and the producers of Merlin, or are drawn from Arthurian legend. The alternate universe in which this fic takes place is mine; and any country or territory I represent is in no way related to real life places. The opera 'Death in Venice' belongs to Benjamin Britten, and the original novella is by Thomas Mann.
The beginning of this story is Arthur/Gwen, but that will soon develop into Arthur/Merlin, I promise!
This story forms part of a larger series called the 'Love Conquers' Series.
You can find the story’s promo video here (password: arthur).
...
La Fenice
Chapter One
The sun sagged low in the sky, shining a dull, deep orange tinged with yellow near its peak. It cast about itself splashes of orange amidst the grey clouds, like an eccentric painter throws pigments onto a blank canvas. The soft light warmed the streets and gifted to the buildings a kind of glow. Yet, it was upon the water that the light came to life and delicately danced over its constantly changing surface. All was still, all was quiet, save for the slight splashes of the gondola’s oars as they slipped through the water like a knife through butter. Venice sat on the fringes of a Kingdom, far from the bustle of the court; tranquil and peaceful, secure in her position. She was a paradox; a city at once timeless and unchanging, yet restless and innovating. It was in her art that she poured her colossal energy, leading all of Europe in the fields of music and literature. She was truly the heart of the Kingdom; the seat of its emotions and the source of its inspiration. She was a meeting point of cultures, a blending of the Germanic, the Italian, the Greek, and the Arabian. For over a thousand years she had been a commercial hub, receiving merchants from every corner of Europe and the Middle East, and they had left their mark. Sailing along the canals, through the streets of the city, one would see arches to rival those of the Gothic heartlands, and ornamentation that seemed plucked from the courts of the Sultans themselves.
Click to viewAs the evening drew on, the quiet of the city and its lagoon was broken by the strains of dozens of violins carried on the twilight winds. People opened their windows and looked out to see appearing on the horizon a flotilla of ships approaching the city; a large galley led a number of smaller barges. The music played on, getting louder as the fleet drew closer to the city; the violins were joined by other instruments, indeed an entire orchestra was laid out on the barges. The violins played a fast tune giving the ships the impression of skipping over the water. The light of the sun fell at just the right level to hit the lavish golden decoration on the galley, to bounce off of it like light through a prism to dazzle the people waiting eagerly at the dockside. O how radiant that galley was! It was like a second sun, come to replace the first. From its stern flew a magnificent flag; deep crimson red emblazoned with a richly embroidered coat-of-arms; a shield encased with an ermine mantle and supported by two lions; one gold, one silver. The wind that carried the elegant music of the orchestra gently blew the flag in a gracious mimic of the water of the lagoon.
Captain Arthur Pendragon laid his white-gloved hand on the rail of the Bucentaur, the state galley, and looked out on Venice. They were approaching the dock outside the Doge’s Palace, leading onto Piazza San Marco; the Piazza was filled with people awaiting the ship, and a line of blue jacketed soldiers made sure they kept a respectful distance. Arthur took off his silver helmet and tucked it under his arm, being careful to make sure the white swan feathers that crowned it were neatly arranged. He ran one of his hands through his short golden hair and listened to the soothing music coming from the escorting barges. Handel’s Water Music, he mused, he had last heard it at one of his father’s garden parties at Bradley House back in England. He shifted slightly on his feet; the leather of his boots made a resonant thump on the wooden panelling of the Bucentaur’s deck and the metal of his medals jingled slightly. Arthur was not a big man, in fact he could be described as rather medium; medium height, and medium build. Nevertheless, he was highly trained and physically fit, indeed the fittest man in the entire Imperial Army; one of the many reasons he had been appointed Captain of the Gentlemen-at-Arms - the Sovereigns’ personal bodyguard. His face was noble; a strong defined jaw with a prominent chin, a pointed but delicate nose, stern eyebrows, and startlingly bright blue eyes betrayed his aristocratic blood; by right of his birth he was Baron Pendragon, the heir to Uther Pendragon, Duke of Somerset. His brow bore the early signs of wrinkles, which - at 26 - didn’t serve to make him look old, but rather gave him an air of character and dignity, and which had been borne out of the heavy duties and responsibilities he had grown up with as an officer and aristocrat. But there was also a cheekiness about him, most evident in his animated and jolly laughs, usually accompanied by his head thrown back to show his brilliant, albeit rather crooked, smile.
Taking his hand from his hair, he placed it on the pommel of his officer’s sword, which hung from his belt. His uniform was elaborate; a bright red dress coat with royal blue velvet cuffs and facings. Gold aiguillettes hung from his epaulettes on his right side. Up the centre of his coat ran a series of elaborately decorated golden buttons finishing at his collar with elaborate golden embroidery. On the left side of his chest hung a number of medals with colourful ribbons, detailing the record of his service to the crown. He wore black trousers which finished in black leather boots, polished perfectly so that the setting sun reflected on their surface. On his hands he wore white cavalry gloves, stiff at the wrist. The helmet he held under his arm was also richly decorated; besides the wondrous white swan feathers; the silver was embellished with gold detailing of vines and lion’s heads. Beside his sword hung a holster containing a Browning HP pistol, ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice. The sword it hung next to was not the kind of sword a knight would ride to the crusades with, it was not a great and heavy behemoth of steel; rather it was a light and refined blade, double-edged and straight, but thin. Nevertheless, it was strong, and sturdy. The pommel was of gold and decorated with the insignia of the Sovereigns; insignia which ran down the entire length of the blade, etched into the steel along with a vine pattern. A man in the uniform of a Gentleman-at-Arms was a sight to behold; a soldier fitly dressed to guard an anointed Sovereign. Standing on the deck of the Bucentaur in the light of the setting sun, accompanied by the strains of Handel’s regal music, it seemed that Arthur was a god rising out of the sea to meet his people.
Yet, Arthur was not the reason for the crowds of waiting people, nor the cause of the beautiful music. Arthur was a soldier first and foremost; and his service was to the crown, and it was the bearers of this crown that the people had come to see; precious cargo that was at that moment in the royal cabin of the Bucentaur, waiting for the ship to dock outside the Piazza. Arthur had been Captain of the Gentlemen for a little over a year, when he had been personally selected from his previous posting as a Lieutenant in the Coldstream Guards. The Kings had selected his team, which formed the Corps of the Gentlemen-at-Arms; five officers, and twenty-seven Gentlemen. The Corps had been reformed from a ceremonial posting for mostly retired officers to an active bodyguard unit at the insistence of the Kings themselves, and, in Arthur’s opinion, they had chosen wisely; because the team that had been built around him had become almost a family, of which Arthur was proud to be a part. They were the Nearest Guard of “new and sumptuous” troops, just as Henry VIII had envisioned when he established the Gentlemen in 1509.
The Bucentaur pulled up alongside the dock with the barges, still playing their wonderful music, taking up positions off the prow and stern of the ship. Arthur put his helmet back on and picked up his Gold Stick of office. His men took up their positions on the deck, Second-Lieutenant Percival Jones - the Gentlemen’s Standard Bearer - brought down the Royal Standard from where it was flying at the stern. The plank was lowered from the deck to the dockside, and the music stopped. Without a word, Arthur and his second-in-command - Lieutenant Lance du Lac - marched out to stand before the plank; their steps in perfect synchronisation and each footfall rang with military authority. Percival marched into position behind them with the standard, to which Arthur and Lance offered a salute. The other Gentlemen with their bronze lances embellished with gold thread, led by the other officers - the Clerk and the Harbinger - holding their swords at the present, formed a column behind the standard.
“Platoon, by the centre, slow march!” Arthur bellowed, and immediately the orchestra struck up Men of Harlech; the regimental slow march of the Sovereigns’ Bodyguard. Arthur and his men began to march steadily forward in time with the music, down the plank and onto the soil of Venice, leading the Royal Standard before them. As Percival was the tallest of the Gentlemen, the flag blew high and proud in the air as they marched. The people watched entranced as the disciplined men marched slowly into the Piazza to the flagpole from which flew the national flag also of deep crimson, but with a golden Jerusalem Cross embroidered in the centre, flanked on either side by a lion rampant; on the left a golden lion, and on the right a silver lion. The standard bearer of the Lanktarnan Venetian Guards pulled down the national flag as the Gentlemen approached and marched away with it, leaving the flagpole clear for the raising of the Royal Standard.
The music stopped. “Platoon, halt!” Arthur roared, and with clockwork precision the air around the Piazza echoed with the stomp of leather boots coming to a halt. Arthur and Lance did an about turn and saluted the standard with their sword, before moving off to the side. When they had taken up position, the orchestra began to play again, this time the Royal Standard salute. Percival marched forward to the flagpole and attached the standard. As the orchestra played, the Royal Standard was raised up high on the flagpole, to fly over Venice, signalling the arrival of the Sovereigns. The music came to a stop once the flag was up and Percival had returned to his former position.
Arthur and Lance marched back to their positions and Arthur ordered; “about turn! By the centre, slow march!” Once again, Men of Harlech was played as the Gentlemen returned to the Bucentaur. Arthur spared a moment as he marched to absorb the grandeur; the feel of being in uniform, the thrill of being watched by crowds of people, the striking vista of Venice of sunset, and the resounding majesty of the orchestral music. He had to struggle to keep a smile off of his face as he ordered the men to halt. The music stopped and the Gentlemen fanned out; a red carpet had been placed at the foot of the plank, and half of the Gentlemen stood on one side, the other half on the other. Arthur and Lance marched up the plank onto the deck of the Bucentaur, saluted with their swords to the closed gilded doors of the royal cabin, and Arthur announced in a loud voice: “Your Majesties’ guards are ready to march off, sirs.”
After a pause of only a few seconds, the gilded doors opened from the inside, and the Kings walked out. King George was tall at six foot 4; slightly portly from the number of royal banquets he’d attended, but carried himself with gravitas and dignity. His hair was mousy brown and quite short, receding back slightly to form an ‘M’ shape on his forehead, but with a distinctive crown of hair on the back of his head. His face was round and kind, yet stern and quite serious. His eyes were of the same blue as Arthur’s, but the similarities ended there; George’s nose was small, and his mouth pursed to the same width with a small curve of a smile on one end. He walked with a slight abnormality in his right foot, which wasn’t straight but was naturally inclined to pull him to the right, causing him to constantly watch and adjust to ensure he was walking in a straight line. It gave his gait an unusual look; not club-footed, not quite a limp, but not quite an ordinary stride either. Whilst he carried himself with the dignity of a monarch, and was by no means a small man, he did not exude any particular presence; one got the feeling that one could miss seeing him in a room of people. There was a sense in the way that he carried himself that, despite now being a monarch, he had never completely shaken the need to compensate for that lack of presence by making elaborate declarations of his presence. The atmosphere that did surround him, however, was one of gravity; a serious man, who had no time for frivolities and trifles, but concerned himself with important affairs, and concerned himself with them perhaps too much because it was beginning to show on the lines of his face even at 21. The lines around his small mouth, however, betrayed something of a love of laughter; a playful streak common to most people who show themselves as serious.
Beside him stood a smaller man; around the same height and build as Arthur himself. King Johan wore his neatly brushed brown hair longer than George’s; having let it grow down to between his ear and his shoulder. The first feature one noticed of the King was his large, penetrating, and soulful eyes; they were hazel in colour, and the light seemed to dance playfully in their deep pools. Johan was extremely handsome, with a dignified and noble aquiline nose, like the Roman Emperors of old, and a broad, wide smile much larger than George’s. His complexion was fair, a blend between milky and kissed by the sun. Whereas George was serious in his demeanour, Johan balanced him with a light-hearted cheerfulness and willingness to bend the rules George so tightly stuck to. Perhaps as a symptom of that character trait, Johan was not dressed as smartly as his co-monarch. They were both dressed in black full evening dress, completed with a blue sash and silver star denoting their sovereignty over the ancient Order of the Garter. But Johan carried himself in a more casual style than George; his dress coat was of a more modern, contemporary design; whereas George’s would have been fashionable in the reign of his great-great-grandfather. Johan’s smile and demeanour showed him to be a kind man, deeply concerned with people, and this showed in that while George concerned himself with ‘state matters’, in particular foreign policy, Johan was keen to improve the social and economic conditions of all his subjects. It was not that George was not concerned with those matters, but rather that Johan had more aptitude and experience with them; leaving George happy to concentrate on the foreign policy he excelled at. The two Kings were, indeed, perfect complements to one another.
The two young Kings had married two years previously, in the summer of 2007, both at the age of 19; a month after the signing into law of the Act of Union, formally uniting the Kingdom of Celestis and the Grand Duchy of Lanktarna into a single United Kingdom. Since then they had cemented that union of the crowns to such an extent that the barriers dividing Celestan from Lanktarnan were quickly breaking down. Coming to Venice - the heartland of Lanktarna - was part of a royal tour across the entire Kingdom, and even into the Empire which the two Kings had created by establishing new overseas colonies; and coming to Venice in the Bucentaur - the historic state galley of Venice’s rulers - was a powerful statement of ownership and legitimacy, and, of course, splendour. They were like two fairy-tale princes, and the people rejoiced in the splendour and opulence of their new rulers; wherever their Majesties travelled they were accompanied by pomp, ceremony, music, ritual, theatre, and grand food; all paid for out of the Kings’ own funds. It was like one, long, extended honeymoon. Together they were forging an image of united monarchy that showed its place at the heart of national life; as personification of the state, and ceremonial heads.
King Johan walked with his hands casually in his pockets; King George with his hands clasped neatly behind his back, as they walked out onto the deck of the Bucentaur. Arthur offered another salute with his sword, which the Kings acknowledged with salutes of their own (Johan, of course, having removed his hands from his pockets to do so). Arthur and Lance about turned, and marched to the plank, the Kings falling into step behind them; not marching themselves, but strolling along like any happy couple. As Arthur led them down the plank to the dockside, the orchestra played the Royal Salute. Once on the dockside, Arthur marched down the line of his men, until he had passed them all and then halted, Lance next to him. The Kings walked along and stopped behind them, to take the salute of their people; the orchestra began to play Vivat in Aeternum and the people’s voices rose up in joyful chorus.
With waves and smiles, at the conclusion of the anthem Arthur and Lance began to march forwards again, followed by their Majesties. Behind them, the rest of the Gentlemen fell into line and marched solemnly after the Kings. The people cheered and the orchestra returned to playing Water Music. As they made their way to the entrance to the Doge’s Palace - the royal residence in Venice - Johan and George waved to their people and occasionally reached out to shake outstretched hands. Each time they did, Arthur’s eyes darted to watch them, to ensure they didn’t attempt anything on the Kings’ person. The job of a bodyguard required constant vigilance; not everybody had been happy with the marriage and the union of the two nations, and Arthur feared it was only a matter of time before an attempt was made on the Kings’ lives. But it was not to happen tonight, with a final wave to their people, the Kings walked up the steps to the Palace. They stopped at the top of the steps, flanked on either side by statues of Ares and Poseidon, to take the cheers of the people before turning and walking through the doors into the Palace.
Arthur walked into the Palace after them, where King George stopped him; “ah, Captain, Johan and I will be dining here this evening, and then attending the performance of Death in Venice at La Fenice. Can you handle the security arrangements, my boy?”
The King always called Arthur ‘my boy’, despite being several years younger, but Arthur nodded and replied; “of course, your Majesty.”
“Splendid!” George declared and walked quickly off towards the private apartments. The Palace was abuzz with activity; the Royal Household had travelled ahead of the Kings from their last stop at the Residenz in Munich and the full machinery of the household was in place hours before the Kings had even set sail. Equerries and footmen in their red coats rushed around carrying papers and boxes from room to room, the occasional butler shouting orders in the distance. Arthur removed his helmet, giving his head a chance to breathe, and walked off towards the Guard Room. As he rounded a corner he nearly walked into Sir Louis Grantham, the Master of the Household; a tall, spindly, elderly gentleman with thinning white hair and a thick white moustache, and small spectacles hung low on his nose. He shared a nod with Arthur and carried on about his business as Arthur walked on down the stunning corridors.
When he walked into the Guard Room he found his men undoing the buttons on their dress coats to combat the heat and chatting amiably. Lance noticed Arthur enter and offered him a glass of water from a jug left by one of the footmen at the request of King Johan. Arthur took it and downed the water in one swig. Lance was, perhaps, the most honest and loyal of Arthur’s men, and he had quickly become a good friend. He was born and raised in a town just outside Marseilles, on the Mediterranean coast of Celestis in what had been the French Empire, until it had fallen at the end of the Napoleonic wars which had prompted the creation of Celestis. Consequently, Lance spoke English with a thick French accent, and often slipped into using French if it was easier for him to express himself that way. Since the mid 1800’s it was expected that aristocratic Celestans would be fluent in French, and so Arthur was able to converse with him in that language without any problems. Lance typified the spirit of the medieval French knight; he was courteous, generous, noble, and valiant. These were all qualities that had endeared him to the rather conservative, nigh snobbish, King George and secured his place in the Gentlemen-at-Arms. In build he was again similar to Arthur. He was not as muscular as the captain, but he was more agile. His hair was dark, which was worn long until his posting to the Gentlemen required him to cut it short. His eyes were chocolate brown, and somewhat eerily calculating; one got the sense speaking to Lance that he could see through you and understand you completely, a skill which Arthur found extremely useful in guarding the Kings; being able to make a quick assessment of a person was crucial.
Arthur cleared his throat so that his troops would pay attention; “listen up, men, their Majesties will be attending a performance at La Fenice in approximately 3 hours time. As usual it’s down to us to escort them, and take charge of security in the theatre itself. Gwaine, Kay, and Galahad; I want you down at La Fenice in one hour. Merlin, I want you to get a floor plan of the building and make a note of any escape routes. Owain and Bors, I want you to start vetting the audience based on tickets already sold. This is a routine op, ladies and gentlemen, and you’re the best; but slack off and I’ll have you tied to the wheels of a gun carriage and paraded around the Piazza, got it?”
The men chuckled under their breath, but nodded and mumbled their assent. Owain and Bors buttoned up their coats and left the room to be about their task. Merlin went to do the same, but Arthur grabbed him by the arm and stopped him; “I hope you’re not planning on going out dressed like that, Private Emrys?”
Merlin was an inch or so taller than Arthur, but skinnier and lankier. He had been born near Knock, in Ireland; the westernmost province of the Celestan Kingdom; he was pale and ethereal in appearance, almost as if he could have been one of the mysterious figures from the vision which had made Knock famous. His eyes were not as blue as Arthur’s, but they were bigger and more open, and gave the impression of naivety. His face seemed rather too big for his head, as a matter of fact; his cheekbones were so prominent it was quite odd, as if he did not have enough skin to cover his face. His ears, too, were too big for his head, almost comically so. But he had the warmest smile of anybody Arthur knew, with the possible exception of King Johan himself, and a heart to match. And for all his oddities, Merlin did not look funny or unusual; he looked like Merlin - unique, ineffable, unknowable. He looked down at his state of dress and saw he hadn’t done up his coat; it was hanging half off of him.
“Oh, sorry Arthur,” he said with a blinding smile.
The young man fumbled with his coat, prompting Arthur to bat his hands away and sort him out. He buttoned up Merlin’s coat and dusted him down with his hand; “I shouldn’t have to dress you, Merlin, you’re old enough to do it yourself now.”
“Ha ha,” Merlin sneered but without any malice. He had been hand-picked for the job by King Johan, who had seen him on a state visit to Dublin whilst he was still Prince, before the Act of Union, and had never forgotten him. Merlin was touched when he received the letter informing him of the royal appointment, and left his job in the Dublin police to begin his new life as a soldier and bodyguard. He’d been sorry to leave his home, and dubious about his suitability for the role; unlike the other Gentlemen, he was not, and had never been, military. Until he joined basic training a year ago, he had never fired a shot. Arthur had been well aware of that when Merlin joined the team, and Arthur had teased him mercilessly. It had taken Merlin over 8 months to break Arthur’s cold exterior and gain some semblance of friendship, albeit a friendship built on playful insults and banter. Despite it all, though, Merlin still had the lingering feeling that Arthur doubted him, and even didn’t like him. He tried his best to be cordial, but Arthur’s general manner towards him was always bordering on rude. Also, Merlin couldn’t help a degree of class consciousness creeping in; he saw Arthur as a spoiled brat, whereas he was born to a mother and father who worked on a farm for a local landowner. Arthur had grown up in a mansion; Merlin had been lucky if they’d had a cottage with a roof that didn’t leak.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Get going!” Arthur said with a shove to Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin glared at him, but left the room to complete his errand. Arthur had a tendency to leave most errands to Merlin, so he wasn’t surprised in the least that he’d been chosen for this.
As he walked down the corridor, hand resting on the pommel of his sword, Merlin mumbled to himself; ‘how am I supposed to find a floor plan?’ A couple of equerries sent him strange looks, but he smiled sweetly back at them and carried on happily mumbling as he walked to the main office. Knocking on the door, he walked in and clicked his heels. Mrs. Hawthorne sat behind a desk looked up from her work and nodded for Merlin to continue. Mrs. Hawthorne was the Private Secretary to Their Majesties, who nominally had authority over the Gentlemen-at-Arms, although in practice amounted to little more than general oversight as the Kings themselves preferred to take direct control of their Guard. But Mrs. Hawthorne’s job also involved organising the Sovereigns’ official programme.
“Arthur wants me to go over a floor plan of the theatre, check for exits and that sort of thing.”
Mrs. Hawthorne’s glasses fell off her nose and dangled from their chain around her neck, she looked up with disdain and a sigh and said; “that sort of thing? And I assume you mean Captain Pendragon?”
“Yes, yes, the prat, can we get on with it please?” Merlin waved his hand dismissively.
Mrs. Hawthorne sighed again, and she seemed to do that a lot in her position, and rifled through her papers until she found the floor plan Merlin needed. He took it from her with a cheeky smile, and sat down on the edge of her desk to start studying it. Mrs. Hawthorne coughed politely, and when Merlin turned to look she was staring at him expectantly. Merlin just smiled again and said; “lovely day, isn’t it?”
“Out. Now,” was Mrs. Hawthorne’s only response. This time it was Merlin’s time to sigh, and he walked out of the room clutching his precious bit of paper.
...
Arthur gripped his helmet under his arm and gave the equerry a curt nod. The young man knocked smartly once on the door before him before opening the door and walking in. He stopped after a few paces, bowed, and said; “Captain Pendragon, your Majesties.”
Arthur walked in, bowed, and hovered by the door as the equerry left. King George was sat at a desk with pen in hand signing a piece of paper, while King Johan stood beside him, hand on his shoulder, reading whatever it was. It was Johan who turned around first; “Captain, do come in. Put that helmet down somewhere, no need for you to carry it everywhere.”
George rolled his eyes at his spouse’s ignorance of protocol, but did nothing to stop him, so Arthur did as told and put the helmet down in one of the chairs; a grand one, with gilded back and upholstered in wondrous green velvet. The entire room was similarly decorated in sumptuous green accented with gold, except for the ceiling, which was almost entirely an enormous mural, save for the edges which were white stucco accented again with gold. The mural depicted King Johan’s father - Grand Duke Otto - seated on a white cloud being lifted by angels into the waiting arms of Christ; the ‘apotheosis of Otto’. Otto wore the Lanktarnan crown on his head, and wore the ceremonial blue and silver coronation robes. He held in his hand a sceptre, and in his other an orb; the traditional symbols of monarchy. Below him could be seen the lagoon of Venice; the city complete with numerous ships entering the harbour, indicative of trade and wealth. It was an image of victory and triumph, celebrating the long reign of Johan’s beloved father. Beloved not, however, by everybody; it was commonly known that King George loathed Otto, for Otto’s opposition to his marriage to Johan. Arthur supposed he only tolerated sleeping in a bedchamber with Otto’s image larger than life painted onto the ceiling because he slept in that chamber with Johan; the ultimate snub to Otto’s opposition to their relationship, they had now triumphed in the place which saw some of Otto’s greatest victories and under, as it were, his very nose. Still, Arthur would not be surprised if George had a plan already underway to replace the apotheosis with something a little more suitable.
King George was an extravagant patron of the arts. Since his reign as King began, George had been systematically promoting a very particular artistic agenda; he loathed ‘contemporary’ art and persistently pushed and promoted more traditional styles of art, in particular the academic school. Under George’s direct supervision, work had begun seven months previously on a new palace, on a scale never seen before, to be built on the ancient border between Celestis and Lanktarna as a symbol of their new unity. Known simply as ‘the Valley’, the palace was slowly rising from the ground, with a string of Europe’s finest artists waiting to enter and begin beautifying it on the inside. The centrepiece was to be a new throne room; one to rival any in the known world. Behind the dais where the thrones would sit, a mural would cover the entire wall in very much the same vein as the mural on the bedchamber ceiling; it was to be a mural of the ‘apotheosis of George and Johan’ a scene combining elements of their marriage with religious imagery, symbols of victory, and national unity; a powerful statement of their new United Kingdom. King Johan was less enthusiastic, however; by nature he disliked opulence, and avoided extravagance wherever possible. It was Johan who reigned George in, preventing him from bankrupting the nation with his artistic ventures. As always, George concerned himself with big gestures, whereas Johan was more mindful of the little things. So, where George would prefer to wallow in all the splendour that baroque could offer; Johan would much rather have basic simplicity.
“What can we do for you, Captain?” Johan asked after a few moments; Arthur, of course, could not initiate conversation, but was required to wait until the King began speaking to him.
“Your Majesties’ coach is ready to move off, sirs,” Arthur replied.
“Is that all you say, sir?” George said without raising his head from his papers; “Your Majesties’ whatever-it-is is ready to move off, sirs?”
Arthur didn’t know how to respond. He stuttered for a moment before Johan saved him with a gentle smack to George’s arm; “George, don’t be so rude.”
“You’ve made me jog my signature, dear,” George said under his breath, but put his pen away and stood from his desk; “well, onwards and upwards!”
“Thank you, Captain, we will be ready to depart presently,” Johan said in his finest regal tones, leaving no doubt that he was being dismissed. Arthur picked up his helmet, clicked his heels and bowed, and walked backwards out of the room.
When the door closed behind him, George gently grabbed Johan by the waist from behind and pulled him into an embrace.
“George,” Johan warned, “they’re waiting for us.”
“They always wait for us, we’re Kings, that what they do,” George replied in a low voice, and rested his head on Johan’s shoulder. Johan put his hand on George’s, and pushed himself free, but he turned around and kissed George tenderly.
“Come on, my King, let’s go and enjoy an evening at the theatre. Do you remember the first time you took me to the theatre?”
George chuckled, “you broke your leg and I had to wheel you in a chair.”
Johan nodded, “because you’d paid for the theatre and you didn’t want to lose the deposit.”
“That’s the reason I gave you, yes.”
Johan’s eyes widened, “what do you mean?”
“The real reason was I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to be alone with you, we were still courting at the time.”
Johan caressed George’s cheek and smiled, “you sly devil, you never told me that.” He kissed his spouse again, before pulling away, “come on, you don’t want to miss another opportunity to be alone with me do you?”
Turning very serious, George said; “Never. I never want to miss anything with you.”
“’cos I don’t wanna miss a thing” Johan sang.
“Don’t! Don’t! You know how I hate that cheap music!” George moaned, covering his ears.
Johan laughed heartily, revealing his radiant smile, “I thought you liked my singing?”
“My love, you sing like an angel, I tell you that every day; just, please, sing something decent?”
With another laugh, Johan swept George out of the room. Their youthful behaviour, chasing each other down the halls and stairs, still continued to shock some of the older members of the Household, but by now many were used to it. They were carefree and in love, and they were young so they made the most of it.
Continued here...