。。。写的夺好啊……
又看一遍《Crossroads of disbelief 》
"Problem Merlin?" He asked after long moments of struggle and Merlin, cold and miserable and irritated pressed his lips in a tight facsimile of a smile and half tilted his head to look at the man.
"Problem? No, why ever would you think that? Clearly everything is just brilliant," he snapped the stones together harshly, creating sparks but nothing catching. He'd always been shite at starting a fire this way, but he generally managed to hide that fact with a quick spell or disappearing on an errand until another knight or servant started it for him. After a few more strikes he paused, bowed his shoulders in frustration and took a calming breath before he chanced a look to Arthur. He was still watching him steadily, no rancour or impatience on his face, nor blame or mocking that was generally present in the face of Merlin's small failures. He was calm, steady, and assessing, which was more bothersome than any other look Merlin ever saw on him. He looked like he was waiting, but not for the fire. Merlin swallowed thickly under the gaze and turned his attention back to trying to start the fire.
Around them the rain beat softly on the ground, a cool breeze making his hands near numb with chill, the occasional spatter of water still jumping past their limited shelter. Merlin began breathing heavily through his nose to calm his nerves, his frustration, the sheer feeling of helplessness at the entire bloody situation that he not only failed to prevent, but failed to fix before Arthur was…before he was…hurt, and now he couldn't even start the simplest of fires to try and chase away the cold. To try and ward off sickness that would no doubt attack Arthur with a vengeance under these conditions. It was unfair. It was cruel. It was-
"Merlin," Arthur's voice, quiet and steady so in control it calmed Merlin's racing emotions, at least slightly. He paused in his work and looked over more fully now, waiting to see what his prince needed. Arthur watched him, a knowing look on his face mixed with a brief flash of sadness that Merlin had no context for. Arthur breathed in slowly, clearly preparing to say something important. Had Merlin had even an inkling of an idea of what was to be said he might have reacted with slightly more poise.
"Use your words," Arthur ordered, and then waited expectantly, almost grandly despite being hunched over in half soaked clothing and sitting on damp ground, shaking. Merlin frowned in confusion.
"My words? Usually you're trying to get me to stop talking," he flexed his fingers, preparing to check on Arthur's temperature and wishing he could see him more clearly. He did not expect the nearly pained huff of irritation.
"Merlin," Arthur began again, slowly, "use your words to ignite the fire."
There was a moment where Merlin was caught wondering how severe Arthur's illness must have grown since they'd dismounted, because clearly he wasn't speaking the common tongue any more. It was a brief moment. When his meaning sharpened clearly in Merlin's mind he couldn't help the feeling of his blood running cold, slowing and stopping within his body for what felt like years, only to rush forward in a burning flare of heat blossoming in his chest. He flinched back, not aware he had done so until his bottom landed on the soft earth and his hands dug into the dirt to steady him. The pounding of his heart increased the pounding in his head, making thought difficult, making reactions slow, and he couldn't help the instinctive feel of fear and uncertainty. How could he not, when the secrecy had been trained into him from childhood. It took him a long moment to steady the instinct, to let the surge of adrenalin calm, and to recognize that Arthur wasn't, in fact, trying to execute him with the one dagger they had. Or the wooden spoon, because Merlin was fairly certain Arthur could turn the dullest of tools into weapons.
Arthur was just watching him, his face steadily cast more and more in shadow as the last of the evening light receded. There was still no anger, no murderous intent, but Merlin wasn't sure what to make of it, what to think. He was panicking, clearly reading more into what Arthur had actually meant. He couldn't possibly know.
"You must be mistaken sire," Merlin swallowed heavily, forcing his voice to remain steady despite his shaking nerves. "Words can not start a flame."
There was a tense stretch of silence, foreboding and weighing on Merlin's shoulders in the worst way as he watched the man he had grown to respect more than any other cast judgement before him. When Arthur sighed, the irritation in his tone was at least familiar and therefore welcome even as he now stared daggers at Merlin.
"Do you take me for an idiot, Merlin?" He asked softly. The question sat in the air between them, untouched for a long moment, before Merlin swallowed and shook his head.
"No." No he did not believe Arthur Pendragon to be an idiot. A prat, a git, an arrogant man with faults like any other, who was raised to be naive about many common plights and expectant of what sometimes felt like lavish royalties. A man who had responsibilities for people he would never meet sitting like an anvil on his shoulders since childhood; raised to lead, choosing to honour, and whom Merlin had (quickly) learned felt much and hid more of himself than any other he knew. Apparently he hid much more than Merlin had ever credited him for.
He'd never thought him an idiot.
Perhaps he should have thought himself one though.
"Light the fire Merlin," he ordered softly. Merlin was many things but a coward he was not, and he wasn't about to start now.
"Leohtbora."
……………
https://archiveofourown.org/works/476203/chapters/832400
她怎么就不多写点☹️
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