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Arthur, with all his experience with drinking goblets and goblets of wine through endless feasting processions, was a light-drinker. But he also knew that as the host of the banquet, he was only allowed watered-down wine. He needed to be present-minded, if not for the purpose of vigilance, for basic politeness to his guests.
For that reason, he knew he was not so inebriated the previous night that he could not perceive a looming danger. And yet he held no other explanation as to why all of a sudden, his manservant seemingly disappeared from the very walls of the citadel.
They were left with no clue other than the telltale tracks of a well-laden man, and a single note that read:
“I am sorry. All shall be well.”
Whatever those things implied was not lost to Arthur, and yet he meant to use all of his devices so as to point to wherever Merlin was taken. He also knew that their lead was weak, and trying to track the boy was futile, so well-concealed the tracks were that it seemed as though the earth was unmoved by the fleeing figures.
What the note and the emptiness of Merlin’s bedroom altogether implied made no sense to Arthur, and so he fled from that thought, and tore through the kingdom to justify the other. Merlin must have been abducted. And he desperately searched his head to recall the events of last night that he did not pay much attention to: mysterious faces, suspicious figures, inconspicuous noblemen.
A familiar ache settled in his chest as he listened to the report of his most trusted knights. But this time it was tinged with a bout of uncertainty, and he could not successfully push the cold feeling that felt like something in between guilt and foreboding. And perhaps something a little alike to hurting. In truth, if he listened to the better part of his mind, he would definitely know it was more than a little hurting. Not betrayal, not disappointment, but hurting.
Arthur pushed knuckles to his eyes, keeping the throbbing of his head at bay.
“Sir Leon,” he began, “when Merlin arrived in Camelot he was but a boy. Since then, he faced many years – and you were there to see it with your own eyes.” His voice was tired, and if one knew him as much as Merlin does, they will even hear traces of sadness in it. “Tell me: can you truly believe that Merlin will just leave?”
Leon raised his head slowly, not bothering to think too deeply. “No, sire.”
And if Arthur asked anyone of his knights other than Leon, they will answer just the same. But he wished he did not have to ask anyone at all of that stupid question. Just come back, will you? I’ll even give you a week off.
He hated every bloody minute of it, and Gwaine was so eager to get back to the search party that he was dismissed right after he briefed his findings to the Round Table. It was not until Sir Mordred interrupted Elyan’s report that it was confirmed that Merlin’s disappearance was of his own volition.
“He trusts me,” the youngest knight said suddenly, putting them all to silence. Mordred wore a frown over his lips, and his eyes gleamed like a dew-kissed leaf. No one noticed before, but he kept his vision downwards, and his hands trembled in restless fists.
“What do you mean?” said Arthur, even now, recalling the drunken stupor the boy was in the previous night. When he did not respond, he asked more firmly, “Mordred, what do you mean?”
Then Mordred stilled like a statue, eyes fixed on one of the windows above Percival’s head before speaking haltingly. “Merlin left because he trusts me.” A crushing sadness pooled in his eyes, and he looked vulnerable and like a young lad again. He could not make sense of his confession, but Arthur was compelled as if by a strong gut feeling, and jumped from his seat to stand before Mordred.
He held the boy’s shoulders gently and said, “You know why Merlin left.” He blew a breath, for those words meant admission, that he finally accepted the possibility of a hard, cold truth – that Merlin could truly have left – and it hurt.
“Mordred, where is Merlin?” demanded Arthur.
Mordred flinched away as if slapped. “He trusts me!”
Elyan tried to reason with him. “Merlin could be hurt out there on his own, Mordred. Is it not our duty, not only as knights to Arthur, but as friends to Merlin, to make sure he’s safe?” Arthur gave Elyan an appraising glance.
But the young knight only looked Arthur in the eyes, resolute, finally breaking out of his immobility. “My lord, he trusts me,” he said through a grimace. Arthur did not know the nature of their relationship and the distrust that always seemed to hang between Merlin and Mordred, or the boy’s enthusiastic efforts for Merlin’s approval, but he was tired and worried and desperate.
“Mordred, do you not understand?”
“You do not understand, and you never will!”
“For god’s sake, Mordred, he could be dying!” Arthur yelled. “He could be dying right now and we will never know because of some stupid childish promise you claim to uphold!”
As soon as the words were out, Arthur regretted it. Mordred shied away from him, not out of fear but in chagrin, and his arms fell limply by his sides. He dared not look at the disappointment in his knights’ eyes, so he combed a hand through his hair and cradled his face as though that will keep everyone from seeing through him.
He did not know what to say next, and by some small blessed rays of the gods’ hope, the door slammed open to reveal a queen in haste.
“Arthur.”
Guinevere still had her travelling cloak on, which served as a very telling sign of her urgency. As she neared the round table, she raised a parchment and handed it to the king. Arthur backed away from Mordred and unrolled the parchment. Now all eyes had turned to him, and as he sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, the eyes grew worrisome. He ran a hand down his face then turned to Mordred a final time.
“Where is Merlin?”
Mordred did not hesitate to speak this time around, sensing an air of ominousness all around that chilled his blood. “I fear that he would wish to see Morgana.”
Arthur let out a yelled curse. Then he threw down the paper for them to read, escaping from the hall. He was almost out of the doors when he ordered,
“Fetch Sir Gawain. All those who wish to come, prepare for a journey.”
On Percival’s hand, the parchment seemed like a cursed relic. And perhaps it was, Mordred thought, after Percival read the letter.
“Gwen, you are dear to me as I know I am to you. I have made mistakes that changed greatly what once was, and I regret them. But I am ready to face them. And I promise I will. I will never forget those who fought with me when my home faced war, and I swear to you I will not let war tear you apart.”