[For a moment, Arthur doesn't respond. He's standing at his desk, leaning his hands against it with his back to the door, thinking. No, thinking isn't the right word for it, as thinking implies a process. Rather, he's mulling. He had never raised a hand against Merlin in the past, and frowned upon those who did so against their servants. There is a level of respect necessary, though he would never vocalize it, and especially not around Merlin, and he had broken it by crashing his fist against Merlin's face.
It had been fault, he had warned him. Don't talk about Guinevere. Don't mention her in his presence, and the warning had been stern. It wasn't his fault that Merlin had spoken out of turn, had ignored his warnings, had done so when he had slept least and when his patience and temper were shortest.
It had been all so very complicated.
So he waits a minute before responding, though he isn't obligated to let Merlin in at all.]
no subject
It had been fault, he had warned him. Don't talk about Guinevere. Don't mention her in his presence, and the warning had been stern. It wasn't his fault that Merlin had spoken out of turn, had ignored his warnings, had done so when he had slept least and when his patience and temper were shortest.
It had been all so very complicated.
So he waits a minute before responding, though he isn't obligated to let Merlin in at all.]
Come in, Merlin.