Hey, everyone, here's a little ramble I wrote from Arthur's perspective, with little hints of depression and hopelessness on Merlin's side. A bit angsty. I may write another chapter from Merlin's point of view.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this—whatever this is.

Disclaimer: Merlin belongs to BBC. I make no profit from this story.

He had seen it before, quite a few times in fact. Of those times, it had occurred during a period of uncertainty, fear, and danger; so, at those particular moments, it had been more than appropriate and rather expected. Even from someone as usually cheerful and so filled with faith—faith in that everything would turn out all right—as Merlin. His servant was certainly an idiot, but he was never completely oblivious to dire situations. On the contrary, sometimes he seemed finely in-tune with the mood of the time and with any others also experiencing the same situation. Over the years, he had discovered how sensitive and aware his manservant was to the feelings of those around him. Perhaps, it was a truly normal, natural gift, as Merlin was considered a far better "people-person" than he was. However, occasionally, he had labeled it as an odd trait, for neither was the strange, blue-eyed peasant a completely open (or entirely truthful) book either. Merlin was always surprising in that aspect, with all of his contradictions. Arthur would sometimes catch himself pondering what went on in that seemingly dull mind of his. Was Merlin consistently the same person one minute and then the next? Or was there a—a conflict of personalities inside of his servant and was he perhaps concealing some of them, partially at the very least? And then there followed the inevitable question: how well did he really know his friend?

Though that question lay at the heart of the matter, such was not the current focus of his observations. No, the main subject was concerning Merlin's moods and, more relevant, the ones he tried to keep hidden.

Arthur had been checking over some apparently important, though nevertheless extremely boring, document detailing the repairs being made after Morgana's second siege of the city and attempt for the crown, when he had glanced up from his desk, his eye having been easily caught by his servant's movements. Merlin had been tidying up the quarters, which now took him slightly longer to complete since he and Guinevere had married and consequentially moved into the larger, shared chambers of the king and queen, but he was being a good deal quieter than normal. Not that Arthur was complaining—well, not aloud, at least, never out loud—but, no, this was usually the time when he desperately wanted a distraction, and of course Merlin had chosen the worst time to shut up and do his job like a dutiful servant. So, as much as his pride wanted to prevent him from speaking up, Arthur knew he did not want to read anything at the given moment, certainly not the mass of almost meaningless numbers before him, and would thus be forced to engage his servant in order to prevent any further development in his own duties. With some form of insult or jibe at the performance of his chores (how well he polished the armor always seemed to get him going, for some reason) hanging at the edge of his lips, Arthur was just about to call out to the man when he quite suddenly noticed his face.

It was not simply unhappy or depressed, but it also seemed lonely. At the same time, though, there was a—a bleakness to his expression, something bereft of consciousness but not of feeling; and whatever feeling held there was deep, recessed to the back of the now hardened blue of his eyes.

It seemed… desolate.

Arthur continued to stare openly at his friend, who was smoothing out the cresses in the bedspread, which had not been wrinkled in the first place until Merlin unceremoniously dumped the basket of clean clothes to put away less than an hour ago. He did not notice the king's attentions, evidently lost in thought, or perhaps even memories, but just continued to mindlessly do his work. The lack of energy in his face and his gaze frightened Arthur somewhat. Merlin, regardless of if he was daydreaming or encountering despair, always had a vitality about him. It wasn't so much as energy as it was an obvious sign of being alive, of being alert to whatever surrounded him. Though no genius, Merlin was, beyond everything else, alive.

But, now, he appeared…

The young king shook that particular, disturbing thought from his head. To think about Merlin in such a way was heinous in its very nature.

But was it untrue?

He glared absent-mindedly down at the parchment littering his desk, reading nothing, the shadow of his servant's countenance still echoing in his sight.

Some fear resounded in his mind: was there something wrong with Merlin? Truthfully, the times had been troubling, not to mention taxing, for everyone. He saw how Gwaine would sometimes take his wine to his chambers for a solemn, solo drink or how Gwen could be caught occasionally lingering in the doorframe of Morgana's old bedroom. Everyone had their own troubles and was suffering from in their own ways, but he had never before truly noticed Merlin's. He supposed it was due in part to how obvious he assumed Merlin to be. He had grown up with only a mother to nurture his emotions and then teach him to be unashamed of them, he imagined, while for Arthur it had been the exact opposite. With only a stern father and a grand title to uphold, feelings for Arthur were to be considered a weakness, something to give the countless enemies leverage over him. That was why it was often difficult for Arthur to express anything of importance or meaning. Merlin had a way with that sort of thing; conveying what was beyond words, and even then getting across what was beyond the words. It was in his voice, his expressions, his eyes, and maybe something else, something undefined. So, when his manservant failed to exactly convey his thoughts and feelings to him, Arthur naturally brushed it aside as an absence of said things.

He should have known, really he should. Merlin was essentially built with contradictions. Though apparent, he was not open. Though he was a terrible liar, he always managed (for some time, at least) a way around the truth. And for all of his successes in helping others, he could barely help himself. It was self-sacrificing and noble, in a way, but it was also stupid. Suffering in silence, bottling up whatever war waged or gloominess brewed within him was not good for him, and this was coming from the son of Uther Pendragon. It led to poorly made decisions and—even worse contemplations. He didn't want that for Merlin, or anyone really, but especially not his friend.

Arthur was just thinking over the possible pros and cons of prodding him to talk about his sorrows when a knock rapped from the outside of the doors. They were opened a second later, before he could even speak the command, allowing a determined Gwaine to enter his chambers.

"Ah! Merlin!" he greeted, paying little attention to his own rudeness for barging in without even so much as an acknowledgement to his sovereign. He clapped him on the shoulder. "How are you, my friend?"

A tentative Elyan peeked in from the entrance, his gaze immediately connecting with Arthur's. He nodded apologetically for the intrusion. "Sire," he said, still standing by the doors, smiling only slightly. Ever since Arthur's marriage to Guinevere, Elyan had been having some trouble adjusting to his new position as brother-in-law to the king. It was very much like after he had been knighted; he was somewhat awkward and silent, preferring to remain in the background until he had the chance to test the waters of how he was to behave. For instance, currently, he didn't bother to move towards his fellow knight, who was now entreating Merlin with an invitation to the tavern. The lanky man of course declined, gesturing to his remaining work. There was still the armor to be polished, the floor to be swept, not to mention the removal of that nasty wine stain from the shirt Arthur had been wearing the previous evening (which peaked the king's interest, because he should have done that last night). Gwaine made a loud, complaining noise in the back of his throat, throwing his arm around the servant's shoulders.

"What's one, two drinks, eh, Merlin?" he pleaded good-naturedly, oblivious to the fact that regardless of what Merlin thought it was still ultimately Arthur's decision.

Yes, his decision.

The sight of Merlin casually removing Gwaine's arm, declining for a second time, all the while steadfastly avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room was enough to convince Arthur to speak something rather unexpected.

"Merlin," he addressed his servant, who now looked up at him. The blonde was aware of the other knights staring at him as well. "Why don't you take off for the night," he ordered rather than suggested. "Your duties can be dealt with come morning."

The bold knight laughed triumphantly, ruffling Merlin's hair in victory. It seemed so easy, how affectionate Gwaine was with people, especially Merlin. "You see!" he exclaimed, now grabbing the manservant's arm. He proceeded to guide him by the elbow to the exit, but Merlin paused at the door. He turned to Arthur.

"Are you sure?" he questioned, surprise and confusion evident on his face. They seemed to be fighting for dominance. That was good, Arthur thought. It was better than the other option, the expression before.

The king smiled at his most loyal subject. Instead, he replied, "Try to keep Gwaine from having too much fun."

Merlin nodded back in understanding and left, albeit a bit reluctantly.

If Arthur had to command his servant to enjoy himself in order to temporarily forget his troubles, to stave off the darkness, and to keep him from looking so… then he would. He will order him to have the time of his life. They would talk eventually, but for now that's what he would do.

As a friend, that's what he would do.