@merthurmicrofic
Prompt: Caution
Words: 1793
The door of Arthurâs chambers opens softly, hinges well-oiled, cracking apart just enough for Merlin to slip in with a caution that discomfits him to think about.
In truth, heâs regularly cautious when entering his masterâs chambers; itâs not uncommon to find himself the target of a lobbed goblet or some sharp rebuke immediately upon arrival, and he learned fairly early on in his service to keep a wary eye out until he has a sense of the princeâs mood. Especially if Merlin has recently made some particularly calamitous mistake (which is, heâll admit, a not-infrequent occurrence). So heâs very much used to entering with head down, shoulders rucked, eyes furtive, prepared to block projectiles or obfuscate suspicion or deescalate Arthurâs temper as needs be depending on just how much and what kind of trouble heâs in.
This is different. This is caution of another nature, and Merlin very much wishes he were on guard for a tantrum instead of the sombre reality.
âArthur?â Merlin calls softly, closing the door gently behind him and treading just as softly across the stone floor. The room is quiet, and has been since Uther fell ill, since Morganaâs betrayal was revealed, since Arthur was thrust into a regency he neither wanted nor for which he was emotionally prepared. Itâs a quiet borne of grief, and the anticipation of yet more grief. Of a burden so heavy it drags the very air down with it.
If Merlin didnât know better, heâd think the chambers empty. The fire has dimmed to embers, letting the autumn chill fester and creep inwards from the corners of the room; the candles remain unlit despite the grey cast of dusk at the windows; Arthurâs breakfast remains untouched upon the table. As has been the norm since the king succumbed to his delirium, itâs clear that, since Merlin left that morning, no one has entered the Prince Regentâs chambersâ on Arthurâs orders.
The only sign of the chambersâ occupant is the vaguely human-shaped lump beneath a tangle of bedcovers.
Merlin sets a fresh tray of food on the tableâ perhaps a touch too optimistically, but sometimes if he leaves the dinner tray overnight heâll return in the morning to find Arthur has at least nibbled on something during a fit of sleeplessnessâ and covers the old one, dismayed but unsurprised to see it untouched. He lights a few candles, bends to stoke the fire back to life, casting a warmer mask over the walls. When the space feels marginally less bleak, he approaches the bed.
âArthur,â he calls again, even softer. The lump remains still but for a gentle undulation of breath. As Merlin comes closer, Arthurâs face comes into view where it peeks out from the shelter of the covers.
His eyes are open but glazed, staring at nothing in particular. His head is a nest of tangled blond, matted down in places with sweat from a day spent prone upon his pillow. His skin is pale and drawn, a dusting of uncharacteristic stubble along his jaw and circles pressed bruise-like beneath his eyes by the thumbs of insomnia and stress.
Merlin, not for the first time, is unprepared for how much seeing Arthur so despondent hurts. It exists as a weapon inside him, piercing deep every time Arthur fails to respond to his banter or leaves his meals uneaten or lets his gaze grow distant in a manner less distracted than it is lost. Seeing him now, so unlike his vibrant, endearingly prattish self, triggers in Merlin a twist of guilt and grief and a worry so keen he keeps expecting to bleed with it. Heâs almost angry that he doesnât, because how could he ache this much for another person without it physically tearing a hole in him? Itâs unfair to carry so much love for someone and not have it manifest with any kind of tangible proof. He wishes he had a rend in his flesh to show Arthur, to say look, youâre not alone. Your hurt is my hurt. I bleed with you, always, see?
But he has no wound to offer. So instead, he sits on the edge of the bed, toes off his boots, and draws his feet up until he can circle his knees with his arms and rest his cheek against them, peering down at Arthurâs face with a tenderness he couldnât hide if he tried.
âAlec got kicked by Mable again today,â he begins, keeping his voice mild. âI kept telling him not to use the new brush on her, that she doesnât like the stiff bristles, but he didnât listen and now heâs got a bruise the size of a cabbage on his thigh. Heâll be fine, nothingâs really injured except his pride, but the stable masterâs put him on mucking duty for the next fortnight because he landed on the rake and snapped it clean in two.â
Arthur doesnât respond, nor does Merlin expect him to, but Merlin likes to think that his breathing changes, that the crease between his brows eases just a little bit.
âOh, and Audreyâs banned me from the kitchens again. Sheâll forget about it by tomorrow like she always does, but I nearly lost an ear to her ladle this time when I nearly knocked over the stew pot.â Without lifting his cheek from his knee, Merlin briefly rubs the sore spot on his head with a put-upon huff. He gets a slight relaxation of the muscles around Arthurâs mouth for that, the exhausted frown infinitesimally less pronounced.
âGaius sent me to fetch more yarrow, which I considered complaining about, but the woods were actually quite lovely today. Still a bit of mist in the air from yesterdayâs rain so when the sun came through everything was lit up like the treasury. I almost took longer on purpose just to enjoy it, but I promised Gwaine Iâd help him pilferâ I mean, umâ borrow some apples from Old Man Garretâs stand at the market. I normally wouldnât condone something like thatâ and no, none of the incidents youâre thinking of count, those were all extenuating circumstancesâ but Old Man Garret told Gwen off last week for accidentally stepping on his parsnips and was a right toad about it, so as far as Iâm concerned he could do with a little light larceny.â
Thereâs a barely there huff of an exhale that Merlin imagines to be what passes for a laugh from Arthur these days, and something quivers with painful, treacherous hope between his own lungs. He takes a long, slow breath while he watches Arthurâs face flicker with a brief myriad of expressionsâ amusement, recollection, pain, regret, and then a sort of bewildered sadness, like a child victim to an ague no one can explain to him in a way heâll understandâ before settling back into the exhausted blankness that is his default on days like this.
There are some days when Arthur is sharper than usual, quick to snap and harsher with his insults, and Merlin takes it all with no more than an eye roll. There are days when Arthur plasters on a false smile so bland and empty that it makes Merlin feel ill to witness. There are days when Arthur can hardly bear to interact with his subjects, walking the castle halls woodenly and with an air of someone who is begging not to be asked to make a decision.
And then there are days like today, when Merlin enters in the morning and knows immediately to turn around and cancel everything on Arthurâs schedule. When the burdens of betrayal and inheritance and loss are too much for him to bear without bowing to the void theyâve planted in his heart. On days like this, Merlin delegates and bargains and sometimes outright lies to anyone requesting the Prince Regentâs attention, and doesnât stop until Arthur is needed by no one. For at least one day, he can set down the obligations of prince and regent and leader and unshakable protector of the realm and be instead simply a son reeling with the absence of a parent and a brother who misses his sister even when sheâs hurt him terribly.
Tomorrow, perhaps, the quips will return, however forced. Maybe heâll eat a little more. Maybe heâll get through the council meeting without that awful haunted look coming over him. Maybe heâll even allow Merlin to goad him into a hunt with his newly appointed knights, get some fresh air and company to stave off the crippling isolation heâs been battling within himself. Maybe tomorrow what heâll need is a push. But not tonight.
Tonight, calmly as he can, Merlin reaches out with a careful hand.
Arthurâs fringe is soft and damp between his fingers as he gently pushes the strands away from his face, threading away the remnants of sweat and coaxing the stagnant heat from his forehead.
In another time not so far removed from this one, Merlin would have received an affronted scoff, a dismissive slap, a harsh rebuke, something appropriately mortified and indignant in response to such an overt expression of tenderness. Instead, Arthurâs eyes flutter shut and he exhales as if in relief. Merlin could swear he even pushes into the touch ever so slightly, wordless with craving.
Heâs not sure how long he stays there, silently carding his fingers through Arthurâs hair and brushing a soothing thumb over his brow. Itâs fully dark outside by the time he drags his gaze to the window, stars winking like dutiful but ephemeral guardians. Always there but never quite present when you look too close.
Arthur seems to be asleep, or very close. His breaths are even, face lax and as peaceful as it gets these days.
As Merlin moves to leave, withdrawing his hand from its gentle ministrations, a sword-calloused palm reaches out from beneath the covers and grasps his wrist. He stills, caution returning as he cradles this eggshell moment.
Arthur doesnât speak, but his eyes open, surprisingly clear in the dimly flame-lit room. Blue and baleful. They find Merlinâs easily.
Arthur holds his gaze and squeezes Merlinâs wrist, firm and purposeful. Thereâs unmistakable gratitude in the touch that makes Merlin swallow thickly.
Heart thudding, ribs aching once more with that feeling he doesnât know what to do with, one that swells more and more dangerously with every passing day, Merlin wordlessly places his free hand atop Arthur's and squeezes back.
He stays until his masterâs eyes close once more and his breaths deepen into slumber. Even then, Arthurâs hand remains clasped around Merlinâs wrist, warm and tethering.
Merlin makes no move to extract it. Instead, he stays, and lets the ache in his chest bleed a little longer.
