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In the dark of the night, when the sky has been drained of all light and color with the setting of the sun, the kingdom of Camelot is still and quiet. The streets are empty- save for the occasional rat scurrying through the shadows. The citizens are in their homes, doors locked and shutters drawn.
A chill slithers through the air, reaching out its tendrils, ready to pull in an unguarded bystander standing beneath the stars. Winter settles into Camelot the way the angel of death arrived at Egypt- it barges in without waiting for the open door or the welcome mat, searching for the most vulnerable to drag from their beds and pull them into the cold, dark embrace of death. The citizens of Camelot are smarter, though. They won’t make the Egyptians’ mistakes. They won’t leave their doorposts naked. The angel is turned away- she is off to make victims elsewhere.
At the castle, guards walking the night shift bundle in their suits of chain and metal, huddle together when and where they can around the flame of a torch. They brave the chill the best they can- they stare her in the eye, unflinching, but underneath it all, they are afraid. They say their prayers before their shift, thank the gods when the sun peeks over the horizon at dawn bringing with it a pearl of warmth.
Sometimes, in order to survive the chill, you have to let it win.
A guard of the north face watches as the chill slides her frigid fingers through the thin crack between the great doors to the castle, pries them open, and slips inside. He bites his lip and tightens his grip on his sword, eyes averted. Apparently, the lambs blood wasn’t enough to keep the angel out. He didn’t stand a chance.
The chill stalks the halls, peering down the off-shooting corridors and into ajar doors. She searches for warmth, for the faint flicker of a flame inside a chest and the heat pushed out of a sleeping body with each gentle rise and fall. She reaches out with her fingertips, and when she feels the fire on her nails, hears that faint flicker in the room down the hall, she races toward it. She goes inside- if it isn’t open, she slips in through the crack under the door or through the keyhole- and finds the source. Strangles it. Smiles, as her prey shivers beneath her touch, then moves on to snuff another flame.
She clings to the wall as she travels up, up the spiraled stone to where the royal chambers lie, in all their violet, violent glory. She blows out every lit torch she passes, presses the wicks between her fingers of ice. Darkness trails behind her like she made it her bitch. She tries to lead it out with her, but it cowers when she passes the first uncovered window. She leaves it behind in the stairwell. Steps out into the moonlight-lit hall. She stops.
She smiles.
She can feel it. The flicker. It’s strong, resilient against the tight air, warm even against the cold. It drowns out the heat of the other flames in their bedrooms, slumbering peacefully bundled in their satin sheets and cotton down. She ignores them, sets her sights on him.
But the door is locked. And the cracks are blocked. She’s been expected.
Unfortunately, she always has a backup plan.
She slips out through a cracked window and breaks into the night air. She drifts along the outer wall of the castle, close enough for her cheek to touch the stones. She rounds each corner and stops at the fourth window across. It’s sealed, locked from the inside.
She leans in. She traces the glass with her fingertips, lightly dragging her nails in the tracks she pressed into the surface. She increases the pressure, brings them down harder until she feels the crack. Until she sees it spread like a spider web strung across the glass. She gives it a final tap, and she’s in.
The slumbering prince shivers in his bed.
She floats over to the bed, eyes fixed on the golden-haired man twisted in piles of blankets. She places her palm on his cheek. Smiles. He’s freezing to the touch.
He’s freezing to the touch. She frowns. His flame is small and weak in his chest. It isn’t the same one she felt before. But that’s not possible. She doesn’t feel-
Oh.
She spins on her heel. Golden eyes glare back at her, and within them, the flame she felt before dances wildly.
The man with the golden eyes stands from his chair. His hair is a mess, but those eyes, shimmering golden eyes, are clear and bright. The room is dark enough that a faint golden halo glows around the man’s face, cutting through the black and the cold. She feels the metallic taste of heat on her tongue and glares at the man. He glares back.
“You need to leave,” he whispers, taking a step toward her.
She watches his tongue flick in his mouth as he whispers a spell, and she feels the air around her heat up. She recoils, jumps away from the sleeping prince. She considers squeezing the life out of the sorcerer, considers taking her chances with his fiery tongue. But it isn’t worth it. She’ll let the sorcerer have his way, tonight, and return to the chilly air awaiting her with outstretched arms on the other side of the window.
But when she leaves the room, something holds her back, like a child is tugging at the hem of her shirt. The second flicker, the faint one, glows brighter, warmer. She whirls around to peer into the room.
The sorcerer whispers another spell and the glass mends itself with a golden sparkle as the shards fit into place like pieces of a puzzle. Suddenly, the sleeping one stirs, and he groans as he is pulled into waking.
“Merlin?” he says, voice hoarse, a twinge of panic bleeding into the edges.
The golden-eyed one- his eyes have lost their golden glow and have reverted to a crystal blue that is just as piercing- rushes to the prince’s side.
“Arthur?”
Arthur pulls himself up and leans on his right arm, his whole body twisted toward Merlin. His chest is bare, and she can see his teeth chattering. When Merlin touches his arm, she imagines steam rising where his fingertips meet the prince’s skin.
“I’m freezing.”
“I’ll put on the fire, ‘kay?”
Arthur nods, and Merlin walks toward the fireplace. He uses his magic to light the fire, but the prince doesn’t seem to notice with his half-lidded eyes and uncontrollable tremoring.
When Merlin kneels by the bed again to pull the covers over the prince and bid him goodnight, Arthur grabs his hand in the two of his and squeezes as though Merlin is the life vest keeping him afloat. “Stay,” he whispers, voice shaking, both from the cold and something else. He’s barely awake, one foot still in the world of dreams, the other, buried beneath the sheets and blankets, the only things between him and the unforgiving winter air. “Stay with me.”
Merlin chuckles, bringing his other hand on top of Arthur’s, and smiles down at him. “I’m not going anywhere, Arthur.”
“No,” Arthur tugs Merlin closer. “No, stay with me. Here, in bed.”
Merlin’s eyes widen, and his checks go pink, but he doesn’t make a spectacle of his shock. Arthur, in his sleepy stupor, doesn’t take notice. “Are- Are you sure, Arthur? I was just gonna sit in that chair over-“
“Merlin. Please,” Arthur looks up at Merlin with tired yet pleading eyes, a look so genuine and desperate, it sends a chill down Merlin’s spine. “Please, just... don’t leave me.”
Merlin sighs, a shaky, heavy breath, and lets go of Arthur’s hands. “All right.”
He gets into bed beside Arthur, who is still turned toward the window. He pulls the covers up and turns his back to Arthur.
“Hold me?”
“What?”
“Will you hold me? Just until I fall asleep?”
“Are you in your right mind, Arthur, or do you want me to wake Gaius?”
“No, Merlin. I’m fine. I just...” his voice drops off. “I’m just cold.”
She watches as Merlin considers whispering a spell to warm the prince and be done with it, but she also sees the hesitation. He’s mulling it over, but the fact that he is thinking about it shows that he has already chosen his answer. He turns over.
Wraps his arms around Arthur, who leans into the touch and pulls Merlin’s arms tighter around himself. Presses his face into the space between Arthur’s neck and shoulder blade. Purses his lips just slightly, pressing a kiss into the soft skin of Camelot’s crowned. Holds his breath as though the smallest exhalation will burn the man against him to ash and blow it all away, like this is but another delirious nightmare. Or maybe his wildest dream.
Either way, he doesn’t want to wake up and he doesn’t want to let go.
“G’night, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs as sleep drags him back under.
“Goodnight, Arthur.”
As Arthur’s head hits the pillow, Merlin’s head rises as he peers at the chill through the glass, stares into her eyes and flashes gold from his own. She flashes him a smile in return, knocks her fist against the glass and traces a smile in frost. Merlin isn’t smiling. His face is stone-cold, and his jaw is clenched. She can hear his voice as though he were standing right next to her. Leave Arthur alone.
She blows him a kiss and raises her hand in mock surrender, turns her back to the sleeping prince and his protector.
The angel of death strikes out tonight. Better luck next time.