scifijunkie

Questions Better Left Unanswered

Merlin braced his hands on the battlements and took a moment just to breathe. The air was cool and brisk, and his breath misted lightly, pale against the clear darkness of night. Arthur stood beside him, rubbing his arm where it hung in its sling, staring away into the black nothingness, wrapped in pensive silence. Merlin was content to wait – he had his suspicions as to what Arthur had brought him up here to talk about, and he intended to prolong the peace for as long as he could before the difficult questions came circling inevitably down to trap him like a beast at bay.

He was still bone-weary, an ache that was more than just physical, even after two full days of continuous sleep, restless and riven with troubled dreams though it was; Merlin’s recollection was always hazy afterwards, but he remembered that it was always dark and cold and lonely in his dreams, and that he’d been looking for something that he could not find. He stole a glance at Arthur, considering, and wondered just what he was thinking. They hadn’t had the chance to talk properly since Merlin had come to say goodbye and go to his death, and he wasn’t quite sure how much Arthur had been able to infer from that particular conversation – he hadn’t been expecting to be around to face any consequences, and so he hadn’t exactly been worried about trying not to act strangely. He didn’t regret it.

Finally Arthur stirred. Merlin tensed and braced himself.

‘Where did you go?’ Arthur’s tone seemed casual on the surface, but Merlin could hear the measured consideration beneath each word and caught the sharpness in his eyes; Merlin fought to keep his calm.

‘I was just out gathering herbs with Gaius,’ he said, eyes fixed carefully on the battlements, the practiced lie slipping thankfully smooth from his tongue.

‘For three whole days?’

‘We had to go far to find the right plants.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me before you went?’

‘It slipped my mind with all the fuss over your recovery.’

‘And when you came back?’

Merlin flinched before the methodical onslaught – when he had returned from the Blessed Isle for the second time, he had staggered straight to Arthur’s room, just to check, to check that he was still alive and nothing else had gone wrong and the nightmare was over; at the sight of Arthur slouching in his chair with just the same arrogant grace as ever, he had sagged helplessly against the wall, laughing and giddy and so tired he thought he might pass out right there with Arthur crouching bewildered and concerned beside him. He wasn’t entirely sure what he might have said then before he did in fact pass out on Arthur’s floor – his mind had been too blurred by exhaustion at the time for him to now recall much of what had happened.

Arthur pressed his advantage as though sensing weakness. ‘What about before you left, when you came to my room? You weren’t yourself.’

‘Oh that was nothing, I probably just spent a little too much time around some more questionable parts of Gaius’ herb collection; it didn’t mean anything,’ he lied, and it hurt this time because he’d meant every word of what he said and he hoped that Arthur knew that.

Arthur made a frustrated noise.

‘You’re an idiot, Merlin, but you’re not that stupid, and neither am I. What was that?’

‘Look, I was just glad you weren’t dead – I got a bit carried away,’ he said, trying to throw Arthur off with an admission of half-truth.

‘That wasn’t what it sounded like; it sounded like goodbye. And then you disappeared.’

Arthur’s voice was so carefully flat that this time not even Merlin had a hope of deciphering it. He didn’t know where to begin dealing with what that might mean, and Arthur wasn’t giving him time to think.

‘Where did you really go?’ he asked, low and serious. Merlin swallowed, forced himself to relax his hunched shoulders and look unconcerned.

‘Like I said – I went with Gaius to-‘

‘Merlin.’ Arthur silenced him with a word, heavy with command and edged with something inscrutable that made Merlin’s heart slam to a halt in his chest. ‘The truth,’ Arthur said. ‘That’s an order.’

Merlin tore his gaze unwillingly from the stonework and looked up, met Arthur’s eyes at last. He froze, a thousand excuses dying on his tongue. Arthur was looking at him, intent and searching, blue eyes dark with determination. Merlin had never realised until now how much Arthur had been holding back, letting him slide when he could easily have pushed, letting it drop even when he knew that something wasn’t right. Now the look in his eyes said that this time he would not be deterred; all those unanswered questions and a hundred more that had never been voiced hung suspended between them, taut in every line of Arthur’s body and waiting for Merlin’s answer.

Merlin stared, transfixed, trying to work out what to do. He felt that he was on the edge of a narrow precipice, an endless freefall to either side. He closed his eyes, feeling the too-fast beating of his heart and the wild fluttering of his stomach, and it was like calling the lightning again, the limitless possibility flowing in his veins. He could tell Arthur everything right now, show him who he really was and what he’d done, leave no secrets between them in the clear dark night; he could step into infinity and give him the truth.

‘I can’t,’ Merlin said simply, meeting Arthur’s eyes honestly and willing him to understand.

He watched as Arthur’s jaw worked, mouth tightening in displeasure. Those piercing blue eyes bored into him as though stripping him down to his soul. Merlin held steady and waited for the storm to break, but it never came; Arthur sighed loudly, the tension vanishing suddenly from his body. His head dropped and he leaned forward, resting his forearm on the battlements and propping his injured arm carefully beside it.

‘You really are the worst manservant I’ve ever had,’ he said, voice wry and defeated. ‘You never do a thing I tell you to.’ He paused, staring silently out over the city. ‘But you’re a good friend,’ he said quietly. Merlin’s hands clenched tight and white-knuckled against the stone but he said nothing, letting the implications all sink in, taking the reprieve for what it was. He glanced sideways at Arthur and could almost hear the thoughts turning over and over behind his eyes.

‘Will you ever tell me?’ Arthur asked, expression unreadable.

He thought of Arthur lying pale and gasping on his bed, sliding slowly into death, thought of riding out alone, frantic and desperate and terrified, thought of lying down to sleep, certain that he would never wake again. He thought of those precious three words – ‘the Prince lives’ – and of lightning and cold rain and the stink of charred flesh.

‘I don’t have anything to tell you,’ he said, smiling though his voice was thick and hating the way Arthur’s eyes softened; they both knew he was lying, but Merlin wasn’t ready for this, not tonight. Someday Arthur would force his hand and drag it all out into the open, someday he would have to face up to all the secrets and take the inevitable confrontation full in the face – he held no illusions that it would be an easy thing – someday he would have to risk it all; not tonight, not tonight.

‘As you say,’ Arthur said quietly. Merlin let out a long breath and scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling as drained and strung out as if he had just ridden to the Blessed Isle and back all over again with another life in the balance. He stilled as he felt Arthur’s hand warm on the back of his neck, kneading at the tense muscles there. Arthur’s fingers were firm and gentle, teasing out the tightness and rubbing in easy circles; Merlin relaxed gratefully into the touch without thinking. He glanced over at Arthur and found him watching him, a half-smile curling at his lips. Arthur held his gaze, the hand on the back of neck squeezing once and then releasing as Arthur stepped back and turned to leave.

‘Get some sleep; you look even worse than usual,’ he said gruffly.

Merlin grinned despite himself. ‘Oh, now I see why everyone thinks you’re such a charmer,’ he laughed.

‘And why exactly would I want to waste my charm on you?’ Arthur shot back over his shoulder with a quirk of his lips.

Merlin rolled his eyes affectionately, raising his brows slightly as Arthur paused in the doorway to the tower which housed the steps downwards, one hand braced against the white stone. Arthur opened and closed his mouth as though about to say something but thinking better of it.

‘I mean it,’ he said instead with mock severity, ‘get some rest.’

‘Yes, Sire,’ Merlin said softly, unintentionally catching Arthur’s eyes with that last word. They held like that, caught in echoes of a previous scene, Merlin’s words: ‘I’m glad to be your servant, ‘til the day I die’ almost audible in the stillness between them. Merlin could feel that nervous flutter again, that sense of being on the edge of something important; he opened his mouth, something foolish on his tongue, but Arthur just gave him a slow nod and stepped through the doorway, leaving only the sound of his boots on the stone floating swiftly back up the steps and into the open air.

Merlin leaned back against the battlements, alone in the cool darkness of night. He tilted his head back, looking up at the tiny crescent sliver of the moon, dragged in a deep breath and let it out, exhaling softly up to the stars. The freshness of the air felt good in his lungs, rejuvenating him and clearing his head.

‘Someday,’ he promised Arthur’s absence, ‘someday I’ll tell you everything.’