doubt||merthur

chapter 3

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Doubt comes in and kills the lights
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‘Stop hovering, Merlin. It’s giving me a headache.’

‘You know you can stare at the map as long as you want. There’s never going to be anywhere on it we haven’t searched.’

Arthur drops his quill and looks up, eyes hard and dangerous in the candlelight. Merlin rolls his apologetically and pours him some wine. Arthur reaches for the goblet and the flare of anger ebbs a little with the first sip.

‘You really think it’s pointless to keep looking?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re either the only person in the kingdom who thinks it, or the only one stupid enough to say so to my face.’

Merlin smiles by way of reply. He’s not sure which it is, either. He’s sure the knights are no more enamoured than he is of the endless trips bouncing between Camelot’s boarders, scouting parties into other kingdoms, risking their limbs just because they swore to do so on someone else’s bidding. Sometimes he thinks Arthur takes him along to say what he can’t. Other times he just wishes he was anywhere but wherever he is.

Arthur leaves his quill and sinks back in his chair. The dark hollows beneath his eyes are getting deeper, and the quiet plea is still there but Merlin can’t tell what it means.

‘You’re exhausted,’ Merlin says, quietly. ‘I could have Gaius prepare something to help you sleep better – or I could do it, if you don’t want to bother him.’

Arthur’s gaze raises, says he knows Merlin really means if you don’t want your father to know. He declines with a dip of his head.

‘I’d barely trust you to make me dinner, Merlin.’

‘Yeah but I’m better with potions than puddings.’

‘I should stay alert, in any case.’

Merlin nods, even though he far from agrees. He can feel the cracks in Arthur, too, and they’re getting wider and more permanent.

‘How long are you going to keep looking? Snow’s getting worse. I can’t remember the last time I could actually feel my toes.’

Arthur absent-mindedly cradles his goblet, stares into the heart of the flame of the candle in front of him, as if willing it to reveal the answer.

‘How would I tell him, Merlin?’ he says. ‘How would I tell my father we’re giving up?’

‘It’s not giving up. It’s just – surely he could be made to see it’s – unwise to sacrifice a prince to save someone who’s most likely dead, whatever place she holds in everyone’s affections.’

‘You’d give me up that easily?’

‘Oh, for you I’d just have a cursory glance behind the curtains and say nope, not there. Damn. He’d have made a fine king. Oh well, and move on with my day.’

Arthur laughs. The noise sounds utterly foreign in the room where he’s done nothing but huddle over maps and charts for weeks. Merlin smiles. He never thought he’d miss it, Arthur’s laugh.

‘Anything else you need?’

The pause drags, but then Arthur looks at him. The amusement is gone. His eyes are hooded with sadness and longing. The room constricts, like it’s shrunk around them and cloys to their skin.

‘Company. And strange as it is, Merlin, you’re the only person I can stand to be around at the moment.’

Merlin almost says something like it’s my infectious charm, isn’t it? Everyone warms to it eventually, but the way Arthur’s looking at him – imploring and defiant of his own instinct to be anything but vulnerable – stills the words on his tongue.

‘Well,’ Merlin says, ‘I can do that. Maybe it’s my forte.’