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It was early in the year, cold enough to warrant fires through the night but not yet into deep winter, and Merlin had been uncharacteristically subdued all day. Usually at the first snowflake he was complaining about all the work it took to help turn the castle over for winter, how the water in his wash basin would actually freeze overnight, how one morning he woke up to a layer of cloudy ice inside the small, high window of his room. He stole the furs from Arthur's chair in the evening when Arthur was reading, and he blocked the fireplace in the morning, hunched over on the rug with his hands stuck out to the flames a little too close for Arthur's comfort as Arthur ate breakfast.
But today, Merlin hardly spoke. Large wet clumps of snow flurried around the castle windows and Merlin spent most of his time mooning about. He tidied sullenly, ignoring all of Arthur's attempts to bait him into spilling what was wrong. Arthur eventually gave up and left him alone as he abused a pair of boots with the brush and sighed every five minutes.
Come evening, Arthur was exhausted from a stupidly long council meeting; Merlin's mood wasn't much better. They snipped at each other before lapsing into a sulky silence. Arthur figured the best he could do for Merlin was shove over the bowl of stew he was too tired to eat much of and mention offhand that one of the blankets had holes beyond saving (it didn't) so Merlin may as well take it with him. Merlin nodded and stirred the stew—listless, distracted.
Then later that night, after tucking a hot brick at the foot of the bed, Merlin looked out the window and said bit wistfully, “The woods around Ealdor are always lovely after a snowfall.”
Oh. Of course. It'd been nearly half a year since Merlin last visited Ealdor. Arthur forgot, sometimes, that Merlin had another home that wasn't Camelot. That wasn't being here, with him. He's not proud of whatever jealous and selfish streak leads to such forgetting. He's not jealous of Ealdor, not exactly, but—Merlin has something there that Arthur doesn't: a mother who clearly adores him, who misses him as much as she is proud of him.
After the first night spent in Hunith's home, she had taken him aside, kneeled in the dirt of her own land, head bowed, and said, “It is not my place to ask even more of your highness, so forgive my boldness,” she looked up, directly at him, her gaze steady and fierce, “you will protect him, won't you?”
He didn't know how to tell her she never needed to ask for that. When they parted, Ealdor saved but too many lives lost, Hunith pulled him into a tight embrace and said, “You will let him protect you, too,” not a question, a demand, her arms strong. He had blinked back tears and nodded against her warm hair.
Merlin looked forlorn in the low firelight. Arthur's chest went tight and he couldn't stop himself from saying, “That reminds me, I promised Master Hob I'd take Eiry out for a bit of sport early tomorrow. He said he's scrubbing down the mews and it's easier with her out.”
Merlin made a quiet, pleased sound and turned away from the window, his mouth curved into a soft smile. “I'll see you early, then,” he said, sounding a bit more normal at last.
It wasn't a total lie. It was easier to do a full cleaning of the mews without Eiry there; Arthur had taken her out for such a reason before. He just hadn't promised Master Hob anything and he knew very little about the cleaning schedule. Eiry was Merlin's favorite, though, even if Merlin didn't know how to hawk. He always tagged along and looked at her with admiring longing until Arthur rolled his eyes and let Merlin feed her slivers of rabbit. She would preen and show off whenever Merlin was with them, always circling around beautifully and landing lightly, almost prim.
The one time Merlin hadn't been with them she flew up into a tree twenty minutes into their session, jesses dangling high and out of reach. She refused to come down until Merlin showed up three hours later to entice her with sweet words and the same scrap of cold rabbit Arthur had been using. It was endearing and frustrating because Merlin didn't seem particularly interested in the sport; he just seemed to like the birds, the same with horses and the hunting dogs.
The snow glowed pale red, then orange, then searingly golden-white as it caught the sunrise. Bare-branched trees sparkled under a sky so blue it thrummed. Merlin talked to Eiry constantly, complimenting her, his melancholy from the day before evaporated. He glared at Arthur when he stopped Merlin from giving her an extra slice of meat. When Arthur chastised that he'd spoil her flying weight, Merlin tilted his head to look at Eiry on Arthur's fist, her downy breast ruffled and knitted up in the breeze. Eiry tilted her head right back at Merlin as if he had asked her a particularly interesting question. Merlin smiled and straightened when Arthur let her loose again.
“Her flying weight seems a bit under,” Merlin commented, as if he would know, though as Arthur watched her swoop a little too giddily, he thought Merlin might be right.
“You'll spoil her regardless,” Arthur said.
Merlin smiled, jostled Arthur's shoulder with his own. “That makes two of you then,” he said, which, no, Arthur was definitely not going to obsesses over and think circles about. He turned his head to scan the trees so Merlin wouldn't see the ridiculous blush climbing up his cheeks. Arthur could pin it on the cold air but that wouldn't account for the heat behind it.
They lapsed into easy banter with spells of silence interrupted only by songbirds and the soft paff of snow sliding off the trees. Arthur felt quiet but in a content sort of way. The rhythm of hawking was something familiar. Merlin's laugh cut high and clear through the air when Eiry flumped into a snow drift going after a vole and dove back out like she was playing. The way Merlin's dark hair and bright eyes, stunning against the backdrop of snow, made Arthur's stomach flip-flop was less familiar but felt just as intimate as the thump of Eiry landing on his gloved fist.
They didn't stay out too long. The air picked up a chill the sun couldn't disperse. The sky was cloudless, sharp robin's egg blue. Arthur had felt the temperature drop throughout the morning. It would be freezing by the afternoon. He noticed when Merlin pulled his jacket tighter about himself, words a bit blunted through his cold lips, though he still eagerly watched Eiry circle above. Arthur brought her back in and made Merlin take his scarf under the guise of being too warm after the morning's exercise.
“Can I wear it?” Merlin asked, surprised and, Arthur thought, unfairly wary.
“I don't care where you put it as long as I don't have to carry it,” Arthur answered. He pretended to check Eiry's hood while biting back a shiver as the wind snuck in behind his collar.
Merlin wound it over his neckerchief and sighed in undisguised delight, face half burrowed in it.
“Mm, you were warm,” he said, which Arthur tried desperately to ignore but knew he'd replay in his head at inopportune moments over the next few weeks.
After Merlin stabled the horses and Arthur dropped Eiry back at the mews, they met at the front of the castle.
“Um,” Merlin ventured, “How do we...?”
The steps were entirely sheathed in ice. It was still too early for anyone to scrape it off. They could use a side entrance but no doubt those were equally treacherous. Besides, Merlin's lips had gone a bit blue around the edges and he was shivering. The main stairs were the fastest way to get somewhere in the castle that was actually warm, namely Arthur's chambers where he knew Merlin had left the fire low and easy to revive.
“You'll just have to try to be less clumsy than usual,” Arthur said as he took the lead. He would not be defeated by his own staircase.
Arthur cautiously picked his way up the castle's icy steps while Merlin lagged behind rather than climbing the stairs next to him like usual. Arthur reached the first wide platform and turned (carefully, carefully) to see Merlin stuck, several stairs below, trying to push off a step, foot raised, without slipping. He looked at Arthur woefully—his cheeks were pale in the cold but his cheekbones were bitten rosy by the wind, arms spread wide and low for balance.
“Arthur,” he said, voice even more pathetic than his face, “Arthur, come on. It's not fair, your boots are better.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow at him and made like he was going to turn away.
“Okay! It is fair, you're the prince after all! But if you leave me here, who will...take care of your laundry and organize your desk and cover for you when—” and down he went, or nearly, catching himself on the low banister.
“Oh stop, you're making a spectacle,” Arthur said, then turned and awkwardly waddled down the stairs sideways. When he was close enough he grabbed Merlin by the forearm (why was Merlin only wearing two layers? Arthur could feel his body heat escaping rapidly through the tunic and jacket) and hoisted him to stand straighter, braced his own hand on the banister, and tugged them both up the rest of the stairs.
Well, it was more like they tugged each other up the stairs because the only reason Arthur had gone back was he had the sinking feeling he wouldn't be able to make it up the rest without help. He'd long realized Merlin had excellent reaction time when it suited him.
It took a decent amount of cursing, several near slips by each of them, and Arthur needing to shift his grip from Merlin's forearm to his waist (again: why only two layers?? Did Gaius not have a single sweater to spare?) so Merlin could flap about to steady them. There was one treacherous moment when Arthur's hand slid on a patch of ice on the banister and they nearly both went down had Merlin not somehow grabbed onto Arthur's shoulder (he wasn't even wearing gloves, his knuckles were as red as his cheekbones) and blocked Arthur's foot from flying out from under him.
It left them tangled but standing, Arthur half a step above. They panted into the cold morning air, cloudy puffs of breath mingling.
“Alright,” Arthur said, “nearly there.”
Merlin thunked his head onto Arthur's shoulder. His hair tickled Arthur's neck and Arthur swallowed against the sensation. Arthur could just see the top knob of Merlin's spine, stark and gracefully rounded, through a gap between the back of the scarf and his jacket. He wanted to put his mouth on it, keep it warm.
“I'm exhausted,” Merlin groaned, “I've changed my mind, leave me here.”
“If you freeze to death on the steps you'll get stuck to them and it'll be a pain to scrape you off,” Arthur said.
Merlin butted his forehead against Arthur's shoulder. Arthur figured he could blame his heart beating hard on struggling up the stairs.
“Aren't you supposed to be good at boosting morale?” Merlin asked, petulant.
“Look, if we make it up the stairs we get to go inside where it's warm. I'll let you have the first cup of mulled wine.” He neglected to mention he was going to make Merlin bring up the wine to begin with because Arthur was also tired and cold. Mostly, the whole morning had been too nice and he needed the few minutes it would take Merlin to fetch the wine to get his thoughts back in order.
“Fine,” Merlin said. He moved his hand to grip Arthur's hip so he could leverage himself up a bit. “But I want the next hour off to thaw.”
Arthur adjusted his own grip and disengaged their tangled legs so he could turn sideways. He braced the backs of his knees against the side of the banister as Merlin arduously clambered up a step.
“Don't push your luck,” he said.
He was already planning which incredibly boring treatise he could tell Merlin to look over. Merlin would fall asleep by the fire, surely, for at least an hour and Arthur could actually get some work done on Leon's proposed spring training schedule. It would also give him time to rummage about for a half-decent sweater and figure out a way to pass it off to Merlin. There had to be one he'd outgrown, or was stretched too big, or had been chewed by moths.
Or one that was perfectly fine, dyed a dark blue that was almost black, but would maybe get caught on the crooked nailhead that poked out of the dresser, a hole torn into the cuff or hem. Arthur couldn't possibly wear it then. He'd never liked the color much for himself. It wouldn't be worth the bother to hunt down patching wool in a matching shade when he had so many others that were softer anyway.
He'd have to wait a few days—he'd already given up a perfectly fine blanket not so discreetly, and he was planning on forgetting Merlin had his scarf. As they slid and shoved their way up the stairs, a warm curl of embarrassed, possessive pleasure unfolded in his stomach and fluttered in his throat when he imagined Merlin in his clothes, bundled and bickering, dark blues and grays brilliant against a backdrop of snow.