"Merlin!"
A strange silence met Arthur's bellow.
"Merlin!"
Arthur rose, the chair scraping on his chamber's stone floor. Merlin ought to be here, carrying a tray of Arthur's lunch, and unsubtly rolling his eyes because Arthur insisted that nobody but Merlin should bring him food.
Arthur flung open his chamber door, startling the hall guards. "Where's Merlin?"
"Sorry sire, he's not here."
"I can see that! Where is he? Find him!"
Arthur slammed the door again. He thought back to the council meeting. Surely Merlin was not going to be a fool about that. Leave Camelot? Ridiculous. After all that time concealing his magic, helping the kingdom in secret, why would Merlin stop, now that his secret was out?
Arthur picked up his red cloak, where it lay over the end of his bed. Merlin had placed it there after breakfast.
That was odd, now Arthur came to think of it. The cloak should hang in the wardrobe, not over the bed.
"Typical," said Arthur, but it wasn't. He frowned. "Oh-"
On the bed, previously hidden by the cloak, lay a letter, a single sheet of paper, folded, and inscribed in Merlin's flowing script: Arthur, King of Camelot.
It was stupid to leave a note, stupid to write down things you were too cowardly to say to someone's face, stupid to give any hint at all of your plans. But Merlin's heart was too full to leave without a farewell, and anyway, he had hardly said anything, certainly nothing that Arthur, who was blessed with a literal mind, would understand.
Merlin, stamping his feet to get the warmth back into them, smiled. He pictured the King, raking his hands through his golden hair in frustration at Merlin's inconvenient absence. He would yell for Merlin, and when there was no reply, he would thrash about, and find the note. And then he would be cross.
Merlin grimaced, for Arthur, furious, was Arthur at his most essential: strong, sure, eager to act. Merlin loved the King in all things, but in anger Arthur was irresistible. Never a man for displays of emotion, fury was almost his only outlet, and he did it well. Merlin pictured his friend pacing the council chamber, gloved fist pounding gloved palm, red shirt billowing. Or rather, it was cold: Arthur would have his red jacket.
Merlin sighed.
It was fine. Arthur would find the note, rage for a while, and probably hunt in the wrong direction. Then he would find someone else to bring him dinner.
Someone like Gwen, for example, who clearly loved the King, and who was loved, in return, by everybody. Arthur never snapped at Gwen, had even been known to say please and thank you to her. The people would be pleased by any match for their young King, but especially if the match was with someone who had served the King and kingdom so loyally and so long.
Yes, Arthur would read the note, be irritated, and demand that Gwen bring him lunch. Merlin could continue to his assignation at Midsea with an easy heart.
"Come on," he said to the horse, "you've eaten enough. If you keep making us stop for food and rest, we'll never get there."
The beast nudged Merlin, then stepped back to gaze at him with mournful eyes.
"I'm all right," said Merlin.